Sara, Michael, & the SHU
by PBSheeraz
Summary: Sara POV. The relationship Sara develops with Michael Scofield before his escape changes her life in ways she never would have imagined.
1. Chapter 1

The guard buzzed Sara through the door that led to the SHU. Sara walked through, trying to pretend it was something she did every day. The truth was she had been down to the SHU more times in the last week than she had since she started at Fox River.

The last time she was here was for Lincoln Burrows, to consult with him before his abandoned execution. Today she was here for Lincoln's brother. He needed a new bandage on his burn and his shot.

She followed a CO she had never seen before to the cell next to where Lincoln had been held. Lincoln hadn't been back to the SHU since near-execution, so that meant the brothers weren't neighbors, if that's what Michael had been hoping by getting himself thrown down here.

Michael and his secrets. They were going to get him killed. There was little doubt of that. The man had been through more in a month than most inmates went through in their entire stay and Michael still had four years and ten-and-a-half months left to go.

Not that she should know that, but she had studied up on Michael Scofield more than the typical inmate.

Sara pretended not to see the CO turn on the light in the cell just before he moved to open the door for her. If Michael was sitting all day in the dark it was his own fault. If he would only confess that it was a CO that was tearing him apart piece by piece then he wouldn't have to be down here in the first place. The charred section of CO uniform found in his burn was evidence enough that paid staff had overseen and participated in the abuse.

She prayed it was Bellick. Please let it be Bellick! How tidy would that be?

The door swung open, framing Michael as he stood leaning against the opposite wall of the miniature cell. He didn't move when he saw her. He never did. She was the one who always had to come to him. And because the situation demanded it, she did so yet again.

"No trip to the infirmary today?" he joked, his crystal eyes piercing into her from across the room.

Sara stepped into the cell and dropped her medical kit on his bed, since it was the only flat surface. "Not until you tell who burned you."

The corner of his mouth quirked up. "Sounds like I'll be here a while."

There was no reason for Sara to take the comment personally, and yet she did, anger tightening her chest. "Sit."

He did so in that slow, never-hurried way of his. He sat a respectable distance away, his blue eyes looking unwaveringly into hers.

"So what are we going to do first?"

There was that subtle flirtation she had come to expect from him—come to hope for.

"Let me see your hand," she instructed.

His hand raised up. That clean, manicured hand that seemed so out of place in Fox River.

Sara turned and pulled out her portable diabetic testing kit, pulled out the tester and before she could make anything out of the situation that it wasn't, she gripped his middle finger and pricked it. Five seconds later she had the sample drop of blood she needed and dropped his hand with little delicacy.

"Now let's take a look at that burn."

He smiled, his eyes still taunting. "Does that mean you want me to take my shirt off?"

"Yes."

He did so, taking twice the time as any normal human would. Sara refused to look anywhere but the bandage.

"You took it off again," she scolded.

"I wanted to see how bad it was."

"Afraid the scar is going to screw up your beloved tattoo?"

He didn't answer—just looked at her.

"The answer is that it will. Permanently. You're never going to see that bit of ink again."

His eyes hardened as if he wasn't prepared to believe that. She was tempted to ask him about that tattoo, but reconsidered. The question implied that she had personal interest, and she had sworn she would stay away from that territory.

"The more you take off the bandages I put on, the more chance you take of losing the ink you're so attached to. Every time you take it off you tear off the scabbing and reopen the wound."

Annoyed when he didn't answer, Sara tended to the wound in silence, looking back after a couple of minutes to the blood test.

"That's strange," she said before she thought better of it.

"What is?"

"Your blood just tested normal. You don't need a shot."

"Is that so?"

It was what Sara expected see every time she tested Michael, and now she was actually seeing it.

"Maybe it's a mistake," Michael volunteered.

Victory was simmering in Sara's heart. "I don't think so, but I'll test again."

She replaced the needle and reached out for Michael's hand. "I need another drop, if you don't mind."

This time she used his pinky, just to be perverse. The man was impossible to get a reaction out of, so it wasn't like he would ever let her know that he minded his most sensitive finger be pricked with a sharp needle.

He didn't flinch when the needle stabbed in. She had known he wouldn't, of course, but she did not expect his fingers to curve around hers after the process was finished.

Not gripping back, not flinching away, Sara looked up to give him a look of warning. She had set the rules with him when it came to this kind of thing, but he seemed intent on pushing her boundaries.

Not today. Not when kept the kind of secrets he did.

The words on the tip of her tongue fled the moment her eyes caught his. She had seen this look before. Only once, but it had stopped her like a deer in headlights. It had been a few weeks ago and she had only been asking him to breathe as she checked his lungs. It was something she had done with thousands of patients.

But none of them could breathe like Michael Scofield. She had needed to take some deep breaths herself after she had had the sense of mind to excuse herself from the situation.

Thank God for Katie. Without her interruption Sara had no idea what would have—could have happened next.

And here she was looking straight into those eyes again. Unblinking eyes making promises they could never keep. Not today, not in five years, and likely not any day after that either.

Eyes that dared her to look into them and reflect their intensity.

Did Michael think she couldn't do that? If so, he was sorely mistaken, because she could. That was the problem.

She could.

She could have leaned forward. The door was shut, which seemed ridiculous, all things considered. They were in the most secure part of one of the most secure prisons in the country and the guards felt comfortable enough to lock her in a 6X8 cell with a felon. Guess they figured nothing would happen.

They were right.

With Michael leaning in a half an inch more than he ought to and looking at her in a way any woman would recognize, Sara reached over with her other hand, swiped the sample strip across his pinky and came away with the necessary blood sample. From there it was easy to reclaim her other hand and slip the strip in the tester.

"Cotton ball?" she offered. Those two gloriously simple words succeeded in diffusing the moment.

His eyes dulled noticeably. "Thanks."

She turned away from him and busied herself with her bag. "Now turn around and let me see what you've done to your back."

Cotton ball pressed between his thumb and pinky to catch the small amount of remaining blood, Michael turned his away from her and gave her a view of the back that had fascinated her during his procedure two days previously. No man got that much ink unless it meant something. Vaulted ceilings… avenging angels. It all had to mean something. Especially when a supposed genius chose it to tattoo it over the entirety of his upper body.

Then again, maybe it was just a case of a man being a man—a brainy guy proving he could hang with the tough guys.

Somehow Sara doubted that.

Finally, her eyes made it up to the burn. The protective blister that had formed over the site had been torn off when Michael removed his own bandage.

"Does it hurt?" She hated the question the moment it left her lips. Or maybe it was the way she said it. Either way, it sounded like she cared, not like she was a doctor with a clinical interest.

"You were right about the pills," he joked. "They do wonders. Think you can slip me a few extra?"

"No," she snapped, her voice once again not sounding how she wanted it to… although slipping him some extra pills was a tempting idea when she thought about it. Maybe if the man was doped up he would actually talk and admit how he got the burn. She wouldn't give him enough so that he could possibly o.d. Just enough to loosen him up a little.

Sara tossed out the idea as quickly as it came.

"You know the policy around here, Michael. You get medical supplies as needed and from me."

"So now I have two reasons to see you, I guess."

Sara glanced back to the tester. "Not according to this, you don't." She held the display up so he could see. "This says your blood sugar is 71. That's well within normal range, if not low. When did you eat last?"

His eyes were fixed on the tester's display, as if dismayed rather than elated that it was saying he was healthy. "It's been a few hours, I guess."

"You guess? You look at that watch of yours every three minutes." She was about to say more than that, but she stopped herself. She had watched him since he had arrived. The man was timing everything as if literally counting the seconds he had left behind bars.

Well, if he didn't want to be behind bars, he shouldn't have robbed that bank in the first place.

"It was too dark," he confessed, his eyes guarded. "I couldn't see my watch."

Sara felt a pang of guilt as she remembered how the lights had been turned on in his cell only at her arrival. A split second later she remembered prisoner issued watches had built-in light buttons that illuminated the face. The man was lying. Again. And over something as trivial as not knowing when he last ate that she wanted to shake him and ask him how stupid she thought he was—really?

But she didn't shake him. She didn't even pull a face. She had to give herself credit for that. Instead, she simply reached for the gauze.

"We're going to have to get you back on antibiotics," she muttered, as she gently rewrapped the burn site.

"For my toes? I thought we were done with that regimen."

"You tore open your blister," she explained, her voice finding the clipped tone that was appropriate for the situation. "And given its size and the fact that you've been underground in this…" she searched for the appropriate word, not the one on the tip of her tongue, "less-than-clean cell for the past eighteen hours, makes you a ripe candidate for an infection."

"Do you have any with you?"

"No. I'll have to make another trip." Her voice was clinical, just as it ought to be as her hand spanned the angel on his back. A demon on his chest and an angel on his back. Was it a metaphor? That his days of doing good were behind him and he saw only darkness ahead?

That was a disturbing thought, but it felt so real it made her ache. She had to ask.

"So, this angel on your back," she said, keeping her voice nonchalant. "Who is he and why does he need a sword?"

"Are you trying to psycho-analyze me, doc?"

Sara hated it when he called her that. "Doc." It was his way of shutting her out. "No analysis," she replied. "Just a question."

"A personal question?" She couldn't see his face but she could hear the smirk in his voice. "I thought you set the ground rules on those—that they weren't allowed."

"Touché," she said, holding back further comment on his lack of abiding by those same rules. Or at least pushing them as far as possible. She clipped the gauze and held in place with one hand until she had the medical tape in her other. She would double up on the tape this time, just to make it all the more difficult to take off if he should be stupid enough to try that again.

She worked in silence. It seemed unnatural and forced, but the situation demanded it.

"All done," she murmured as she cut the tape and pressed it against the bandage.

He turned to face her. "That fast?"

"That fast," she agreed, busying herself with the removal of her latex gloves.

"And the antibiotics?"

She chanced him a glance but was careful not to smile. "I'll bring them down on my next break."

He watched her then, his blue eyes looking straight through her eyes into her soul. Or so it seemed.

"Sara, the rules are yours, not mine. If you want to ask me a personal question you are welcome to." His voice was soft, almost beseeching and it angered her.

"I just shouldn't expect and answer, right?" she bit out.

"Sara, I want to tell you—"

"It's Dr. Tancredi, and it doesn't matter, Michael, because you haven't answered one question straight since you got here, have you?"

He looked at her, jaw flexed and eyes hard. And didn't answer.

"Like I said," she said, gathering up her things. "It doesn't matter what you want, Michael. It matters what you do."

Sara's hand swung out, hammering against his cell door. "I'm ready." A few seconds later the door swung open with two guards standing ready for any kind of incident. She made the mistake of looking back to Michael, who sat on his bed looking at her as if he wanted to jerk her back into the room and slam the door shut again.

But he said nothing, and neither did she. She simply walked, guided by the CO she had yet to learn the name of. She looked at his badge, which read Watkins.

"I'll need to come back down in a few minutes with some medication," Sara informed him. "Will you still be on duty here?"

"Sure," the CO replied. "But I could just walk you back to your office and bring whatever you need down myself and make sure he takes it if it's on the approved list of guard-administered drugs."

It was the perfect out. She could give the antibiotics to CO Watkins and be done with Michael for the day. It was the right choice for a dozen different reasons.

"Thanks, but it's not a problem," she heard herself say instead. "I should be back down in less than an hour." And then she cursed herself.

Why in the world had she done that?

It had been two days since she had last seen Michael. When Sara had returned to administer his antibiotics, she had been instructed to do so through a slot in the door and the next thing she new he had been shipped off the psych ward. What he had done to get himself sent there she had no idea, but she was very confident that the move had been intentional on his part.

He had stayed there for a day after which a meeting with the warden had sent him right back to the general population. Sara couldn't explain how, but the man was working the system. No matter how much he got beat up in the process, he seemed to be at peace with his bumps and bruises. Everything except for the burn, that was. He definitely wasn't as peace with that.

And now it was time for her to see to that troublesome burn. Michael was waiting for her in the other room and Sara had to will herself into doing her job. Nothing more.

Two deep breaths and she was off, breezing into his room without giving him so much as a glance.

"Take off your shirt," she instructed.

He complied in his usual careless way, and she noticed that he hadn't touched the bandage since she had wrapped it. Finally. She moved to pull her a small screen in front of him.

"What's that for?" he asked, obviously taking note that he could not be seen from the outside hall.

"It's so the other inmates in waiting don't see your injury," she said without looking at him. "Common prison mentality is to pick on the weak and the injured, so we try not create situations where that happens such as other inmates seeing where you're hurt and to what extent."

He flashed her a smile. "Are you calling me weak?"

She shrugged. "I see you more than any other prisoner. Take that for what you will."

He didn't respond then, his eyes focusing forward as she unwrapped his burn.

"You'll be happy to know that you we're not going to wrap up your burn this time around, so you can look at it all you want. It could use the air for a while."

Oddly, he didn't seem interested in the news, so she kept her mouth shut as she worked. The burn was healing as well as expected and for the next little while there was very little she could do to assist it.

"Let me see your hand," she instructed and started the second phase of his visit. They waited in silence for his results which once again showed him to be off the charts. She readied his shot, ignoring how his eyes watched her as she did so. She knew from experience that she was safe as long as she didn't make eye contact.

She measured the insulin and inserted the needle into his arms with a quick jab. Five seconds later, it was all done. She looked up to tell him so when she realized he was leaning forward—way forward. She knew he was going to kiss her and all she needed to do was not back away for it to happen.

She didn't and it did, the shock of his lips touching hers causing such a jolt that her heart stopped with pleasured fear. It took her several seconds to pull herself back to reality—where she was a doctor, Michael was a prisoner, and they were in a jail with only a 4'X4' piece of cloth keeping them from discovery.

She pulled away from him and couldn't help but laugh a little to herself. This was ridiculous. The whole situation was impossible and yet there she was in the middle of it. And it all came down to one question.

"What do you want from me, Michael?" she asked, her voice clearly affected by what had just taken place.

His eyes looked into hers, seeming to want to drink her in with his next kiss. "Sara, I need you to do something for me."

Sara's breath caught and her heart jack hammered. She was terrified—terrified she might actually give him whatever he asked for.

"What?" she whispered.

He looked like he wanted to lean in again, but that something else was more important. "I need you to wait for me." His hand reached up to cup her face. "It won't always be like this. This place, this room."

The whole situation should have been a nightmare—would have been with any other prisoner—but Sara felt her heart rise out body as she fought the urge to do what she would have done if they had been any two other people having this same discussion anywhere else in the world.

"But until then, I can't," she heard herself say instead, and knew it was the right response. "We can't—"

She heard a sound to her right that let her know someone was near. "Damn it," she whispered. "I can't and I've gotta go."

And she did, blindly exiting the room. "He's all yours," she told the guard quickly and then kept on walking.

It was 4:30, thirty minutes before Sara was technically off the clock when she heard the sound all prison personnel dread. The alarm. And that meant only one thing: that someone was making a run for it.

It took less than a minute for the infirmary to be filled with a flurry of activity as COs entered and began escorting cons roughly back the cells. There would be no riot this time it seemed, even from the few prisoners that were not in lockdown.

Sara paused. Technically, everyone should be in lockdown at this point. Dinner didn't start for another hour and yard time was over. That being the case, who could have escaped from his cell?

She was wrapping an inmate's leg when CO Robinson pushed through the door, handcuffs readied.

"You need to finish up now, doc. We need everyone back in holding."

She snipped the gauze and taped it down. "I'll need to see this one again so I can finish."

"Fine," CO Robinson said and pulled the inmate roughly to his feet.

Knowing it would excite the inmate, Sara refrained from asking questions and waited until the CO was gone before she picked up her phone.

"Katie, do you know what's going on?" she asked when her nurse picked up.

"Only that PI has gone missing through a hole in the ground. Seems like they've been digging instead building and now no one knows where they are."

Michael! was all Sara could think. He was trying to escape in broad daylight, and given the events of the past few days, she wondered if he might actually get away with it.

"You need to come down to the staff area. They want all non-essential personnel gathered there until they find these guys."

"I'll be right down," Sara agreed and felt and odd source of elation as she turned and ran for the stairs.

It had been more than five hours. Five hours of sitting in a cramped room with no ventilation, two candy machines and a brewed-out coffee machine. Dinner had been brought in at seven, but the cafeteria sandwiches had hardly hit the spot for Sara.

There were no updates, just people whispering quietly as the occasional guard popped in and out, and all Sara could wonder was why they had to keep all the staff on site until the situation was over.

Six cons had made a run for it, Sara had learned from the updates. Michael, his cell mate, Fernando Sucre, the soft-spoken longtimer Charles Westmoreland, Benjamin "C-Note" Franklin, Theodore "T-Bag" Bagwell, and new kid on the block who had earned himself the name Tweener. Sometime between 4:00 and 4:30 those six men who had disappeared into a whole in the ground.

It hadn't taken Sara five hours to figure out this was what Michael had been planning all along. He had come to Fox River to break his brother out, and with his brother's transfer he now had no reason to stay. So he had left and let everyone who knew about his plan try to run away with him.

Sara thought of T-Bag and fought back a shiver. She had seen his file. The man had no business being in society.

The door burst open and Bellick came into the room for the first time since the lockdown. Something big must have happened for him to make a personal appearance. Behind him, a half a dozen guards clustered, awaiting their next command.

Bellick struck the self-important pose Sara had seen far too many times and gave each of the staff a hard look. Except for Sara. For some reason he avoided her gaze.

"We've apprehended one of the escapees and he's been flown to Chicago Memorial to have his injuries tended to. It's now clear for each of you to return from your homes for the day."

Which one? was all Sara could think as everyone stood as a body, grumbling in exhausted relief that the day was finally over as they rushed the door like a wave. Which one had they caught? Sara joined them in the rear and flinched when she felt a meaty hand rest on her shoulder.

"Not you, doc," she heard Bellick say with a hint of joy in his voice. "You're going to have to follow me."

Jaw set, she shrugged his hand off her shoulder. "If you say so."

"Oh yes," he sneered. "I say so. Let's go up to your office, shall we?"

Not gracing him with a reply, Sara simply nodded and headed up the stairs to the infirmary. It was nearly ten and she was exhausted. Sitting in a room with nothing to do but speculate for hours on end was more exhausting than actually working.

Sara was halfway up the stairs when she felt a small chill, like a window had been opened. It was an odd sensation simply because the infirmary had no opening windows. The chill increased when she turned to the infirmary, Bellick half a step behind her and looking at her butt. Such attention was annoying under the best of circumstances, but after her day it was downright infuriating.

"Enjoying the view?" she snapped, not looking back.

"For as long as I can until that ass of yours is fired," he drawled back.

Sara fought a laugh. "Is that a threat, Officer Bellick?"

"Captain," he corrected, as he always did. "And it's not a threat, it's a promise unless you have some very good answers to some very important questions."

It was then she saw it: the infirmary door stood wide open giving her a clear view of a now-very-bar-less window which opened to the bright starlit sky. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that was how the five remaining inmates had escaped.

"Now," Bellick sneered into her ear. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about this, would you? Or are you going to pretend that you had no idea what Scofield was up to?"

Sara couldn't feel her legs underneath her as she realized neither statement was true. She had known Michael was up to something, but had allowed herself to believe she was the one in control of the situation.

It took only one look at those bars to look back on every memory she had with Michael Scofield with new eyes. He had played her. Right from the very beginning, everything he had said and done had been leading up to this point and he had needed her to keep her suspicions to herself. It hadn't mattered how he kept her quiet, only that she not share her observations about him with anyone else. And to that end he had played right into her weakness, making her believe that they had a connection…or even more.

"I think I need to sit down," she muttered, mostly to herself.

"Yeah, you do that. In the mean time I'll go get Pope. He wants to talk to you."

Katie watched Sara pack up for the day with interest.

"Five o'clock and you're out of here, huh?"

Sara reached for her purse and grabbed her keys. "It's when I get off."

"Yeah, I know, but you haven't left right at five since the day you started." Katie watched her for a moment while Sara pretended not to notice or care. "It's a hard lesson, but I'm glad you've finally learned you can't give these inmates everything. They'll never give you anything back."

Wasn't that the truth. Sara looked at the clock. It was now 5:01. "See you tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," Katie agreed, and Sara left.

The sun was still shining as Sara made her way to her car. She was actually leaving the prison before dusk, and it was about time. Katie was right. For a while Sara really had believed she could make a difference. She had thought the prisoners she served would want to be to be rehabilitated.

Well, she was wrong. They were parasites. Survivalists. There was nothing about Fox River that invited personal growth and she had made a fool of herself trying to pretend otherwise.

Which meant what?

Sara stopped at a café on the way home—not for the coffee, not for the ambience, but to think as the coffee in front of her slowly lost its steamed and cooled into and undrinkable soup. The whole time all she could think about was the future and where her life would be in ten years if she stayed on in a place like Fox River.

The picture didn't look pretty, so when dusk fell she dumped her cup and made the solitary journey back home. She would hop online and check out her options. There had to be other opportunities where she could use her skills to help people who actually wanted to be helped. In the mean time Fox River could hire a male doctor, which was probably what they should have done in the first place.

Sara drove home on autopilot, not registering the lights or the city life. Not registering anything until she had her key in her front door and had turned on her living room light. She had yet to shut the door behind her when the bowl she habitually threw her keys into and the large envelope sitting inside it caught her eye. Her heart caught in her chest as she somehow immediately realized what it was.

Locking the door behind her, she moved to the envelope and at first only stared.

"Hell, why not?" she finally muttered before tearing it open.

She had never seen his handwriting before, but knew it instinctually. It was Michael's and it was time to find out what he wanted this time.

She took a deep breath, releasing it at the less-than-affectionate greeting of simply her name. Well, good. At least pretenses were being dropped in that area.

Sara,

I told you once that the questions you had regarding me had answers. I'm sure it's clear to you now why I hesitated in answering them at the ties when you asked. I will try to answer them now.

When my brother was first arrested for killing the Vice President's brother, I thought him as guilty as everyone else. I'm ashamed to say that it took me way too long to learn of his innocence and to figure out what I needed to do. Growing up my brother always took care of me, and now it was my turn to take care of him.

Legal avenues for vindicating my brother quickly became exhausted and I saw only one option: I needed to break my brother out of prison before his execution. That meant I needed to find a way in and out of the prison.

Getting in was easy. Everyone knows how to get into a jail. I just needed to make sure I ended up in the same one as my brother.

Getting out was more difficult, but I finally figured out a way. The blueprints showed me I could get out through the infirmary. The original plan was to create a hole in the drainage piped under the sink grate and get out through the window bars, which meant I needed to find a way to get into the infirmary every day so I could have access to the pipe.

This would have worked, but the night we first tried to escape we discovered someone had replaced the pipe. This was the night that you treated Linc for food poisoning. I was the one who made him sick.

With the pipe replaced I needed to move on to Plan B, which was much more dangerous and with which I'm sure you are well familiar.

As for your other questions on how I knew my way around the crawl space and where the prison exits were, it was because I had access to the blueprints, which was something I couldn't very well tell the prison doctor at the time.

This is far from the whole story you may be looking for, but I hope this information answers your questions about me either directly or indirectly and brings you the peace you deserve on the subject.

Michael

She stared at the letter, re-reading it several times and realizing that very little of it surprised her. In fact, it all made sense—so much sense that she wanted to scream in frustration for not having figured it all out herself.

Everything he had written was possible, of course, but it was everything you would never expect to happen at a prison and if what Michael had written was true, then he had counted on the staff's sense of security to play his little game.

Forgetting about her new job search, Sara walked into her room and realized something she hadn't noticed before. She felt a draft…just like she had that night at the infirmary.

"I'd burn that if I were you," a familiar voice instructed from her balcony door.

It was Michael. She knew before she saw his lean silhouette framed in the dark doorway and was both surprised and proud of her herself when she didn't jump when she saw him.

"How did you get in here?"

His dark form gave a quiet laugh. "I just broke out of a high security prison, and you're asking how I got into your apartment?"

Sara had to admit it was a stupid question, but what else was she supposed to say? "I'm calling the police."

"You can do that, or you can ask me any questions you might have on your mind after reading that letter."

Sara's mouth opened, ready to do just that when she thought better of it. She wasn't falling into that trap again. "Why are you here, Michael?"

He steeped from the shadows, allowing a beam of light to illuminate half of his face. "You knew I would come, Sara. You knew the moment you discovered that I had broken out that something like this would happen and you know why."

"Do I?"

He stepped closer again, but was still half a room away. "Yes, you do."

Her heart pounded in her chest and she cursed the tears of hope that were forming behind her eyes. "You played me, Michael. You used me from the moment you met me."

"I had to!" he said urgently. "Don't you see, Sara? I had to. Before I broke in there, I was only thinking about one thing: how to save my brother from dying for a crime he didn't commit. Everything—everyone else was just a puzzle piece I needed to fall into place."

Her jaw flexed even as she felt strangely soothed. "At least you admit it. So I'm going to ask again, Michael: What are you doing here?"

There was a short silence during which he looked away.

"Before," he finally whispered, "in the infirmary, I asked you to wait for me. I can't ask that of you anymore. Things have become too complicated."

The laugh that escaped Sara was as unexpected as it was bitter. "Did you even mean it in the first place?"

Another silence. "It doesn't matter now, does it?"

It was Sara's turn to be silent.

"If you have no questions, then I'll go. I just figured I owed you that after everything. Goodbye, Sara."

He stepped back in the shadows and Sara felt a blast of panic fill her. "You really expect me to buy this story you wrote hook, line, and sinker? It's outrageous. That you saw the blueprints before you went into the prison and memorized them?"

His eyes drilled into hers. "I never said that."

"But—" her eyes locked onto his and felt as if a jolt of electricity ran through her. With that jolt came a revelation. "Oh, my god. Your tattoo."

He didn't reply.

"But how? I mean… holy shit. And the diabetes? That was faked too." She was stunned silent as her mind worked through the details. "I know it's possible but how did you get insulin blockers in a prison you would have had to…" Her voice trailed off as she realized just how seriously Michael had taken the business of saving his brother.

He steeped back into the shadows. "I see you're smart enough to answer your own questions."

Sara involuntarily mirrored his action, stepping forward. "Michael," she whispered, but she didn't know why.

"Since you don't need me anymore I will go."

He was saying goodbye. Sara couldn't believe it—couldn't believe how it hurt to realize it. He had come to do so personally, to make sure there were no misunderstandings between them. Just when she had decided he was the lowest form of scheming slime, he had to show up and do something gentlemanly.

Damn him. Why couldn't he just let her think he was an ass and leave her to hating him? Why did he insist on leaving like this? It would have been so much easier to just walk away.

"So what now? You, Nika, and the chain gang disappear into the sunset?" It was a petty question, but sadly it was the only one that mattered in that moment. Other questions might come to her later, but for now she at least wanted to know if it had all been fake on his side.

"No," he said softly, interpreting her question perfectly. "Nika has a job and a life to build. I promised her that."

Sara's heart hammered. "Was any of it true?" It hurt her to ask, but she had to—if only so she could sleep at night knowing. "About Nika? Was that true at least?"

"What did she tell you?"

As if he didn't know, she thought angrily. As if they hadn't choreographed the whole even to perfection over the phone. "You mean you didn't spoon feed the story to her? Tell her exactly what to do?"

The steel in his eyes fractured, exposing a softness and sorrow she knew she shouldn't trust.

"One last thing. That letter doesn't scratch the surface of what's going on, but it could still get you killed. It may not seem like I've put you in danger by telling you what I have, but it's true. I would never want to put you in danger, but I knew you deserved as much of the truth as I could give you. I'm warning you though, Sara, you can't trust anyone, not even your father with what you know. If The Company finds out you know it then you will either lose everything, like my brother and me, or you will lose your life like Linc's ex-wife and Veronica's fiancé. It's not a joke, Sara. So unless you want to end up like me, keep your mouth shut about this."

And then he was gone. He slipped out of her patio door before she could take a breath and she knew he was gone. She could chase after him, but he would have factored that into his escape plan.

No, he was gone and he had left her with far less than he had imagined.

Sara still worked at the prison. She wasn't sure for how long, but if there was one thing she had learned from the past it was not to make rash decisions in times of extreme stress. Did she still want to quit? Hell, yeah. Every time she walked through those secure doors now, she felt she was the one who did something wrong—like she was the one serving a sentence.

It was 4:45, and due to some miracle the infirmary was empty. She prayed to God it stayed that way until she walked out the door at 5:00. She would be on call at that point, but Sara had only been called in after hours once since Scofield and his gang had busted out. All in all, life was a lot simpler with them gone.

Simpler. More peaceful, and yet paradoxically less meaningful. Sara considered that and made up her mind on a subject that should have been resolved a long time ago.

Reaching out for the phone, she dialed her father's personal number and willed herself to make this step at least. After all, she had proven to herself once and for all that there was at least one area in her life where she could not trust her instincts. One area where her feelings would always betray her.

She had always liked the bad boys—always, and what good had it done her? Looking back on her past, she tried to find one good thing did a man she had feelings for had brought into her life? Sure, they made her heart pound. Sure, they made her feel alive and needed, but the common thread between each of them, besides the fact they were all men her father would profoundly disapprove of, was that they tended to live on the wrong side of the law, and Sara couldn't play that game anymore no matter how gratifying the emotional and physical payoff was for her.

No, it was time to find a balanced man, one with a steady job who was stable and had as much to give her as she would give to him. It was time for Sara to have a healthy relationship with someone who was appropriate.

"Frank Tancredi speaking," her father greeted after the fifth ring.

"Hey, Dad… it's me, Sara."

There was a brief uninterpretable silence. "What can I do for you, Sara? I'm going into a meeting."

"I was just calling… I mean, you know that aide you have that you've wanted to set me up with?"

"Mark? Of course, I remember. Why? Are you interested?"

Sara felt as if her heart had turned into a rock as she struggled for her voice to cooperate with what she was trying to get it to say.

"Yes," she finally managed. "If he's still available then I would love to meet him."

Her dad actually sounded happy at the news. "Very good. I'll get back to you shortly."

"Thanks, Dad," she said, but the phone had already gone dead.

Sara stared off into space, her pen tapping absently on the paperwork she was supposed to be filling out, and creating a scattered spray of dots that would likely never be seen by anyone other than herself.

"So tonight's the night?" Katie said from the doorway, her voice shattering Sara's uneasy trance.

"What? The night I actually have a date?" Sara joked, her voice heavy with self-deprecation.

"Girl, not just a date, but a reason to dress up in fancy duds and strut your stuff. I hear this guy of yours is taking you to some $500 a plate fund raiser."

As if Sara hadn't seen enough of those in her life. When it came to people like her dad, fund raisers had nothing to do with the causes they advocated and everything to do with networking. The $500 was a tax deduction, the image of philanthropy appeased the voters, and in the mean time everyone attending had his or her career advanced.

And all for a good cause.

"You don't look too excited," Katie observed.

Sara snapped from her decidedly uncharitable thoughts and sent her co-worker a smile. "Sorry. My mind was somewhere else. Yes, of course I'm excited."

"Mm-hmm," Katie said, clearly doubting.

"Let's just say that taking me to a political function is not the best way to make a first impression on me. I'm a little jaded in that area."

"Because of your dad," Katie said knowingly. "It makes sense, but give the guy a chance. He doesn't know you yet."

"True," Sara agreed, her pen once again tapping.

"So did you go buy a new dress for the occasion, or are you planning on taking one of the old out of the mothballs?"

This time the laugh that came from Sara was an honest one. "Mothballs? It hasn't been that long." Or had it?

"Still, girl, a woman who has the perfect opportunity to go get a new dress should be out shopping whether she likes the guy or not." She wagged her eyebrows. "Who knows who you might meet at the ball tonight."

Sara's mouth curved. "It's not a ball. It's a fund raiser."

"Same difference. Tell you what, why don't you pretend it's Scofield who's picking you up tonight and see what you put on."

The comment was like a kick in the stomach, but Sara kept her game face on. "Very funny."

Avoiding Katie's gaze now, Sara at long last found the motivation she needed to fill in the chart she had been staring at for who knew how long.

"It's just not right," Katie muttered after several moments of silence.

Sara didn't look up. "What's that?"

"I just don't know if I love that Scofield or hate him. You haven't smiled a day since he left and I can't decide if it's because you miss him or because he messed with you so bad. You gotta let him go, girl. Heaven knows he's gone for good and there's not a reason in the world why you shouldn't let this guy tonight give you something to smile about again."

Sara fought the urge to curse, and settled for simply pressing harder on the pen as she wrote. Was she that transparent? Was it as obvious to everyone else as it was to Katie how much Scofield's escape had affected her—mostly because she had been one of the most instrumental keys in his success. He had done it all right in front of her face, and she—who had always prized herself on her intelligence—had bought his act hook, line, and sinker. Even in the last moments.

It burned her every waking moment, but Katie was right. She needed to let him go.

"Thanks for the pep talk," she said. "I think I needed it."

"You got it, girl. You need anything before I take off?"

"No, I'm fine," Sara said quickly. "Go."

"All right, but I'll expect a full report tomorrow."

Sara smiled and watched her co-worker leave, her smile fading as soon as Katie was out of sight. She stayed that way, staring into empty space, knowing what she needed to and fighting against it in the same breath.

Slowly, her hand move to her desk drawer and opened it where atop all the scatter of pencils and office supplies sat a bright, paper flower. She should have thrown it out long ago. She nearly had on several occasions, and to do so now would involve nothing more than moving the near-weightless flower twelve inches to the right and releasing it into a plastic garbage can. The custodian would empty the garbage sometime during the night and it would be done. The last physical thing tying her to Michael Scofield would be gone.

Sara's hand hovered, immobile, then finally she picked it up.

The paradox of fund raisers never made sense to Sara. This specific evening's cause was children's leukemia, but Sara never understood how a bunch of rich people dressing up in their best and being catered to hand and foot raised awareness or empathy for children dying in a hospital bed. Sure, money was being raised for research, but how many of the people surrounding her really cared? How many of them had been in the same room with a child afflicted with leukemia, or had gone through a day without having every luxury provided them?

"You're scowling," Sara's dad said as he came to her side. On his face he had a plastic smile as if she had just complimented her on her dress.

"Sorry," Sara replied.

"Mark will be along shortly. He had some details to attend to."

Sara fought to keep the wave of agitation from showing on her face. How many times had those words left her hanging in her own life—except it was her father who had something to attend to. "Not a problem."

"I didn't think so." Her dad looked over her dress. "Haven't seen you dress up like this for a long time. Glad you're putting your best foot forward."

"Of course," she said civilly.

There was an awkward pause as each ran out of something to say to the other. When had it come to this, and how?

"Ah, here he comes," her father said at last.

Sara's eyes flicked over to where her father had indicated her date was and found herself staring. Surely it couldn't be that beautiful man gliding through a small gathering of guests. He shook hands as he passed, everyone seeming to know who this chisel-faced man was.

Her father tilted his head toward the man and the gesture was returned. It was Mark. Sara caught her breath, nervous for the first time since she put this whole plan in motion. If this man didn't find his place in politics, then he definitely had a career waiting for him in the modeling business. Perfect charcoal hair framing a poster-worthy face that included everything from a trustworthy smile to intelligent eyes. His eyebrows were expressive and his high cheekbones made him appear perpetually pleased about something as he schmoozed the crowd.

One thing was for sure: this guy wasn't going to staying anyone's aide for very much longer. His aspirations were as obvious as his good looks, and Sara was quick to observe that far more women than men were greeting him as he walked by.

'Perfect,' she thought to herself and then wondered where that thought came from. He was the opposite of Scofield, she realized. Where Michael's eyes were light and unreadable, her date's were chocolate brown and radiated cheerfulness. Where Michael's body was lean, her date was built more like Lincoln, Michael's older brother. And if appearances were to be believed, where Michael wouldn't talk even at the threat of losing his extremities, her date, this Mark guy, spoke openly to all. Everyone around him beamed up at him as if gratified at his simple presence.

For arranging his first blind date for her, her dad could have definitely done worse.

'This is how things should be,' Sara reminded herself. 'You were raised for this life, and whether you like it or not, it's where you belong.'

It was as she thought this that she and Mark made eye contact for the first time. Sara smiled and she watched as Mark's eyes gave her a quick once-over then smiled in return.

They had finally found a quiet spot where Mark's many friends seemed inclined to let him have a drink and a moment of privacy with his date.

"I have to confess that the picture your dad has of you on his wall doesn't do you justice," Mark said as he set his drink on a nearby table.

Sarah sipped her champagne and couldn't hide a smile. "If that's a compliment, I'll take it."

Mark returned her smile, his perfect teeth outlined by perfect lips. "It's a compliment to you and a chastisement for your father. The picture he has up has to be at least five years old. He should update it."

"Yeah, that's likely," Sara laughed, being uncharacteristically open. "I'll just take a shot with me and all the inmates around me. He'd love that on his wall."

"Yes, he did mention that you work at Fox River," Mark with a note of solemnity. "It seems your prison has been in the news quite a bit in the past few months. The riot, the execution, and then that escape."

Sara downed her drink. "Yeah, it's been exciting times, I guess."

"It must be strange to be on the inside of all that. People like me are on the outside looking in, but you, you actually know these people. You've talked with them."

The comment seemed a little off to Sara, but what didn't nowadays? "I treated some of the escapees while they were in prison, but I didn't really know any of them. You can't know a con, because all they lie straight to your face."

The smile left Mark's face. "Are you saying they lied to you?"

Why were they talking about this? Her first night away from inmates in months and sitting around in a formal dress with a perfectly attractive man and talking about them. She really didn't have a life.

"Of course they did."

He seemed interested. "What would a con lie to a doctor about?"

Sara shrugged and suddenly felt hot. She needed some air. "Whatever he can to get whatever he wants from the medicine cabinet. Drugs are a hot commodity in a prison."

"Ah, I see. Of course." He hesitated then, clearly wanting to say something else but deciding against it. "Work is probably the last thing you want to talk about on a night like this."

Sara laughed, subconsciously looking for another glass of champagne. She hated champagne. It always gave her a hangover. "You actually just read my mind."

"We could talk about my work, but," he held his hands out as if their surroundings explained everything, "I'm sure you already have an idea."

For better or worse. "Yeah, I guess I do, but I've decided to give you a chance anyway."

It was a daring and brash thing to say and Sara was pretty sure you meant it. Whether she did or not, Mark's reaction was gratifying. He reached out and touched her face, looking as if he wanted to kiss her right then and there.

"Well, then. I guess I'll just have to do my best to be worthy of that chance, unlike some men in your past."

Her past? What the hell did he know about her past? She was about to ask him when his next comment soothed her concerns.

"I can't believe other men let you go, but you can be rest assured I won't."

His eyes dropped to her lips again and Sara felt her heart catch, but not in the way she expected. He was leaning in slightly when a waiter passed by carrying a fresh tray of drinks. Being as smooth as possible, she picked two flutes up from the tray and handed one to Mark.

"It's pretty soon to be making a declaration like that, wouldn't you say?"

He took the glass and shot her one of his stellar smiles. "Oh, if there's one thing I'm good for, it's my word, Ms. Tancredi."

"We'll see about that," Sara said, her voice slightly jaded, then touched her glass to his.

He turned the gesture into an intimate toast. "To our entwined futures," he said easily, to which Sara raised an eyebrow and drank.

Katie leaned against the break room counter, stirring her coffee absently. "So you're saying that you actually had fun last night?"

Sara couldn't help but smile. "Yeah, I think I did. I mean, all things considered, I expected the night to be a lot worse than it was."

"And how about the end of the date?" Katie pushed. "Any action?"

"It was a first date!" Sara objected.

Katie waved that off. "Like that means a thing nowadays, girl. And you didn't answer my question."

"No," Sara said quickly, then added slyly. "But there could have been."

"Of course there could have been. You were out with a man, weren't you?"

Sara took a swig of coffee so she would have an excuse not to reply. She needed the caffeine anyway to chase away the mini-hangover that was itching around her head. She had only had three drinks, but Sara had never had much of a stomach when it came to alcohol.

"So does this mean the curse is broken?" Katie asked, one eyebrow cocked for dramatic effect.

"What curse would that be?"

"The 'bad boy' curse," she said, as if it made total sense. "You said before you were always attracted to the bad boys, but if you're attracted to this guy then you must be cured!"

"I didn't say I was attracted to him," Sara said quickly.

"Yeah, girl, but I can see the look on your face and it says that a night away from work did you a world of good. I bet there were even a few moments when you for got all about this place."

No, there hadn't been, but Sara kept that to herself.

"What did you wear?" Katie continued.

Sara suddenly felt fidgety. "A dress, of course."

"Old or new?"

Sara cleared her throat and stood. "Break's over," she said abruptly.

"New?" Katie said, her smile growing. Then it froze with realization. "Oh my god, you did it, didn't you, girl."

Sara couldn't make eye contact. "What's that?"

"You took my advice. You dressed like Scofield was picking you up!"

Sara forced a laugh, hating herself as she did so. "How could I do that when my date didn't even pick me up? I met him at the fund raiser."

"Mm-hmm," was all Katie said in reply, her eyes twinkling with secrets. "So when are you going out with this guy again?"

"This weekend, actually," Sara said, relieved to have the subject switch back to Mark. Picturesque, poster boy that he was. Sara could see the future of two people like them without much difficulty. Two workaholics who paths crossed like ships in the night. They would decorate their modestly-sized mansion with antiques and have exquisite gardens magazines would want to photograph. Their lone child would be taught in the best schools and have an image consultant the moment he or she hit puberty. Mark would be on the road two hundred days out of the year promoting his current agenda while Sara was allowed to tend to agendas of her own as she enjoyed the affluence he provided. He'd be faithful for maybe the first year, and then after that it was anyone's guess. He'd never leave her, though. Politicians didn't leave their wives for their mistresses.

Sara had seen countless marriages like it. She almost felt as is she could write a script for it. The only decision to be made was whether or not she wanted to be half of one of those couples.

She blinked herself back to reality. What was she doing? They had only been on one date, for crying out loud! One date and she was already imaging marriage. Not that it was a particularly fanciful vision, but the fact that she had gone there in the first place was worrisome.

What were her other options, really? Pack her bags and join a bunch of fugitives on the lam…if she could even find them? Now that was ridiculous, and her mind shouldn't imagining that possibility any more than it was considering a political future with Mark.

"We've got to get back," Sara said, meaning it this time.

"Mm-hmm," was Katie's simple reply before she followed Sara out of the break room.

Her next patient already waiting for her, Sara stopped by her desk to pick up his chart and found someone had unfolded a newspaper over her folders. She was about to toss it to the side when she noticed a section of the classifieds was circled in red. Slightly curious she picked the paper up and gave it a quick glance.

Her grip tightened as her mind comprehended what she was reading.

CHICAGO, COOK COUNTY IN THE SUPERIOR COURT OF COOK COUNTY STATE OF ILLINOIS Civil Action File No.: 06SM43991 Date Filed: May 15, 2006 SUMMONS FOR SERVICE BY PUBLICATION DIVORCE NIKA S. SCOFIELD-Plaintiff --VS. MICHAEL SCOFIELD-Defendant. TO THE ABOVE NAMED DEFENDANT: -You are required to file with the Clerk of Superior Court and serve upon Plaintiff's attorney, whose address is Tibor Kovacs, 4506 Ashland Ave, Chicago, IL 60609, an answer in writing within thirty (30) days of the date of the order for publication. -WITNESS, The Honorable Judges of said Court, this 15th day of May, 2006. s/Tibor Kovacs, Clerk #9940797: 5/15, 22, 29, 6/4.

Sara couldn't believe it. According to the last line the ad had been run for four weeks—since the day of his escape—and in two days the divorce would be granted by default unless Michael responded.

It took a moment, but Sara got her breath back and looked up just as Katie passed by her window.

"Katie," she called out.

Katie poked her head around the corner. "Yeah?"

Sara held the paper out. "Did you leave this paper on my desk?"

She shook her head. "Not me. Why?"

"No reason," Sara said quickly, her mind racing at who else might have done so. She couldn't think of a soul, but she knew right then that she there was a place she needed to stop that night after work. It may be tacky beyond repair, but she needed to speak with Nika.

Sara hadn't thought it would be a big deal for her to go into a strip joint, but that was before she noticed half of her co-workers had beaten her to the punch. Seemed word had gotten out about Nika's upcoming singledom and the badges all thought it would be fun to get a lap dance from a fugitive's soon-to-be-ex-wife.

Sara didn't stick around long enough to see how the scene played out and decided to return to her car. She would wait for Nika out there.

On the way out she stopped at the bar. "When does Nika get off?" she asked the bartender, who gave her an odd look.

"Have no idea who you're talking about."

"Her," Sara said pointing onto the stage. "I don't know her stage name. I'm here regarding business with her husband." It was a half-lie, but it was enough to get the job done.

"She's here 'til one, but her next break is in about forty-five minutes."

"Great. Thanks," Sara said, turning toward the door.

"Ain't you going to wait for her?" the bartender asked.

"I'll wait in my car," she said and the bartender seemed to understand. He looked away and moved on to a customer.

The stench of smoke and rhythmic thump of the bar's music followed her out the door as Sara walked back to her car. She had had to park all the way in the back where all the street lamps had burned out.

She got in and decided forty-five minutes wasn't too bad of a wait. With nothing else to do she turned on the radio and laid her head back the headrest as she chastised herself for being at the bar in the first place.

What in the world was she thinking?

'I just want to ask a few questions,' she justified to herself as her fingers toyed with the keys in the ignition.

Thirty minutes past—Sara knew because she was counting every one of them—when she saw something that caught her eye. A figure in a hoodie moved through the solitary beam of light in the back of the bar and concealed itself in a shadow by the rear door. Sara watched the spot, but she didn't see any more movement.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. And then, the back door opened, plainly revealing Nika dressed in a silk robe and four-inch heels. She looked like seduction walking.

Sara's first impulse was to jump out of her car and warn her, but before she could even twitch, the figure stepped from the shadows. Nika gave a little jump but then immediately calmed down and started talking to the figure that kept its hood on despite the fact it was a rather warm June evening.

As the shock wore off, realization dawned. Sara knew that stance—rigid yet relaxed at the same time…the way those hands tucked into his pockets, always hiding something. Even the way he turned his head to make sure no one was watching without moving his lower body at all. She had seen all the mannerisms countless times, but once would have been enough. Sara had no doubt who the figure in the hoodie was.

It was Michael. He was meeting his wife behind her work, but why? And what was he even doing in the state? Authorities were looking for him and his brother in Mexico, which was all the more reason to be in Chicago, she supposed, but it still seemed rather dangerous.

She watched them talk for about three minutes, after which Michael handed Nika something that appeared to be an envelope. Nika tried to give it back, but he wouldn't take it. Nika then made motion that looked like she was wiping a tear from her eye and threw her arms around Michael. He held her lightly for several seconds and then stepped away.

They shared a few more words and then he was gone. He simply waved, stepped into the shadows and Sara watched the reflective parts of his shoes disappear around the building.

Nika didn't waste any time getting back into the bar and Sara knew that was her cue. The bartender would mention her for sure, and it would be weird for her not to show up, especially after what just happened. Nika might get suspicious and warn Michael if she thought someone might have seen.

Sure she was alone, Sara exited her car and quickly made her way to the front door ten seconds before Nika showed up on the floor. The bartender pointed Sara out to her, and Sara watched Nika tense up the moment their eyes met. She didn't back off, though, and bravely crossed the room to Sara.

"Hello again," she said softly.

"Hello," Sara said, unsure of what to feel herself. "I'm here because I saw your ad in the paper."

"Ah, yes," Nika said, her eyes becoming more distant. "I'm told it's the only way to divorce your husband when you don't know where he is."

Sara kept her face impassive. "He hasn't tried to contact you at all?"

"Why should he?" she said with a small shrug. "It's exactly what the police are waiting for him to do."

"Sure," Sara agreed, her heart pounding inside her chest. All the questions she had for Nika flew entirely out the window.

"Can I ask why you came?" Nika asked. "My break is very short."

"Of course. I'm sorry, it's just… part of me just wants to make sure you're okay—that you have everything you need."

Nika's expression showed half-shock, half-doubt. "I'm doing well. Thank you. I'm even dating a good man. He takes good care of me." Her eyes flicked involuntarily to the bartender who Sara suddenly realized was watching them with much more attention than his position required.

Nika was dating the bartender! Sara's heart soared at the thought and she fought back a smile.

"That's good to know. I just wanted to let you know that I'm here if you need anything."

Nika was clearly wary of her offer, but accepted it with grace. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. That's all I wanted to say. Sorry to take up some of your break."

Sara could get out of there soon enough and when she took a deep breath of exhaust-filled air and let out a sigh.

Nika had lied straight to her face about Michael, but that wasn't what mattered. What mattered was that Nika knew exactly where her husband was, ran the divorce ad anyway, and that there was no way in hell Michael was going to respond to it!

Nika was doing the bartender and in sixteen days Michael Scofield would legally be a single man, and that meant that there was at least one thing he hadn't lied about.

And if he hadn't lied about that then maybe there were a few other things he hadn't lied about.

If so, Sara was going to find them out!

The low hum of hushed voices filled the study hall where individuals sat paired off at separate tables with books and manuals. People ranged in all ages and nationalities, but that didn't seem to matter. What mattered was that half the people in the room had come to learn how to read while the other half had come to teach them.

"May I help you?" a woman said upon Sara's entrance. Sara turned and saw a slender, dark-haired woman manning the front desk. "Are you here to volunteer?"

"No," Sara said quickly. "Although I probably should…"

The lady smiled, sensing her in. She was in her forties, Sara guessed, but wore her age well. Her name tag that showed her name was Mary. "Well, the screening process is quite simple. Did you graduate from high school?"

Sara gave a hesitant smile. "College, actually."

"Even better!" Mary exclaimed. "Now—"

"And I may be interested in volunteering in the future," Sara interrupted. "But I actually came here for another reason today."

Mary looked interested. "In that case, how can I help you?"

"It's actually about one of your former volunteers. I'm not sure if you—"

Mary's face fell in an instant. "If you're a reporter, the story's been done."

"No, I'm not a reporter," Sara explained. She had expected this reaction, since this wasn't the first of Michael's former haunts she had visited. According to his records, Michael had been actively volunteering for five organizations before he went to prison. Sara had visited the first four and met with little cooperation. This place was her last chance. "I'm actually Michael's doctor."

"Doctor?" Mary echoed, clearly confused. "So how does that bring you here?"

Sara had tried to use technical reasons for looking into Michael on her previous four tries, so if she didn't want to bomb here then she was going to have to try something different.

"I guess I'm just confused," she confessed. "About everything."

Mary didn't respond.

"I mean, aren't you?" Sara continued. "I guess I'm assuming you knew him, but none of what's happened in the past few months makes sense."

"Amen to that," Mary muttered. "It baffled all of us here, that's for sure. Except for the kids."

"He tutored children?"

"Two of them on the same night—and let me tell you, there was a reason Wednesday nights were our most popular volunteer nights. As soon as that man started showing up, suddenly I had twenty women available during those hours." She sent Sara a sly feminine look. "He didn't even have to talk to them. He just smiled and the women would come back for more week after week."

"Yeah," Sara said, not surprised by the news, but exactly liking it either. "The man's a womanizer."

To that, Mary scowled. "A womanizer? I wouldn't say that."

"Why not?" Sara asked just a little more quickly than he would like.

"I mean, he's nice, don't get me wrong, but he keeps to himself. He's brilliant about being personable without ever quite crossing that line into personal, you know?"

Sara didn't respond, as in her case he had made things very personal.

"But I'm sure you understand, because you're here, right? Looking for answers? The other women here went through the same phase."

"But not the kids," Sara suddenly remembered. "You said the kids he taught weren't baffled by any of what's happened."

Mary shook her head. "Oddly, not. We offered them consults with a psychologist at our expense, but neither of them wanted it. It sounds odd, but between you and me, I think Michael said goodbye to them."

Sara didn't mean to, but she nodded. It earned an intrigued look from Mary.

"When asked about it," she continued, "they both simply said that Michael made a choice to get what he wanted out of life, and that through education they could do the same. Odd, don't you think? They both said those words almost verbatim."

A smile curved Sara's lips. "No, not odd at all."

"You think he went into that jail just to break his brother out, don't you?"

Sara felt her breath catch, and wasn't quite sure how to respond. "Is that what you think?"

Mary threw up her hands in a helpless gesture. "It's the only thing that makes sense, if you ask me!"

Sara nodded, a conspiratorial grin curving her lips. "Me, too."

At this admission Sara watched Mary's eyes change, the wariness leaving them.

"Mary, I know this is rather presumptuous and I'm not quite sure what your policies are, but could I ask you a few questions?"

Mary's eyes flicked around the room and made a snap decision. "Let's go to my little office, and you can ask away as long as I get to ask a few questions back."

"It's a deal," Sara said, and followed the woman down the short hall to her office.

Even to herself Sara had to admit she had crossed the line into "stalker-dom." She had borrowed a video from Mary, for crying out loud! A video from tutoring center's last Christmas party, and she was sitting home alone on a Friday night watching it… rewinding it... watching again until Michael went out of frame and then rewinding it again. It was beyond pathetic, it was—

Oh! Here came the part where Michael gave put one of his students on his shoulders so he could place a star atop the very P.C. "Holiday Tree." Sara leaned forward, watching the little boy smile, completely trusting Michael to hold on to him as he stretched to put the star in its place. Michael was smiling, too… those gorgeous blue eyes of his twinkling just as bright as any of the bulbs on the tree.

Even as her mind whispered how pathetic she was being, Sara paused the video when Michael turned to fully face the camera. He was smiling. It was a full and honest expression Sara had never seen on him in person, and in a way it broke her heart to think he might never smile that way again. Wherever he was now—

A knock came on her door, slamming her back to reality. Who the hell was knocking on her door at 7:30 on a Friday night?

Self-conscious that whoever was at the door might see her TV, Sara turned it off and moved to the door, swinging it open without checking the peephole first.

"Mark," she said in surprise.

His eyes gave her a once over. "Hello, Sara." He stepped forward and placed a quick kiss on her cheek. In his hands were flowers. "You must have gotten off work late today, but that's fine. I can wait for you to change."

Sara's mouth fell open in a moment of confusion before she remembered…. She had a date with him that night. He handed her the flowers, which she took in reflex.

"Right," she said quickly as memories over conversations involving flowers in the trash flooded back to her. Sara fought back a laugh. "Thank you."

"You're very welcome. Mind if I watch TV while I wait? Your father's holding a press conference and—"

"Sure," Sara said quickly even as her heart panicked. She moved to her VCR and ejected the tape nonchalantly. "Remote's on the coffee table. Knock yourself out and I'll be out in just a few minutes."

Mark smiled, his eyes adoring. "I can't wait. Our reservations are at eight, but take your time."

Distracted, Sara only half heard him. "I'll be right back."

Damn, she really wasn't in the mood for this. As lame as being a stalker was, the thoughts of watching and taking notes from the video tape all night sounded infinitely more appealing than playing getting-to-know-you with some political hopeful that was probably more interested in her political ties than he was in her personally.

Sara caught herself. That wasn't fair. Mark hadn't done anything that implied he only liked her because of her father. He had been nothing but open to her from the beginning and he deserved nothing less from her in return.

The questions was, what could she possibly say to the man that wouldn't make her sound as insane as she actually was?

Toying with food had been an absolute no-no in the Tancredi household as Sara grew up. It had taken years of being chastised and lectured to cure her of the tendency, and after twenty years of being reformed, she found herself relapsing.

Maybe it wouldn't have been so bad if the salad she was poking at hadn't cost $40, but it did and she was quite certain the restaurant's chef would take personal affront to the fact that she apparently think her salad had been "tossed" enough, and was finishing the job for the staff.

Sitting across from her in a spotless Brooks Brothers suit, Sara could feel Mark's eyes on her.

"Is your salad okay?" he asked after he watched her stab at the same piece of lettuce for the fifth time.

"Hmm?" came her distracted reply, then, "Oh, it's fine."

He put down his fork. "You got something on your mind?"

Sara chanced him a look, wondering if this was her moment. "I guess you could say that."

Mark leaned back, using the motion to give him time to dab at each corner of his mouth. "I don't see how you couldn't, all things considered. I know you shied away from the subject when we first met, but that job of yours must demand a lot of your energy and attention."

Sara let out a little sigh. "Yeah, I guess it does."

"The men you deal with on a day-to-day basis are the men our court systems have decided aren't fit for society." He sounded outraged by this even as he kept his voice even. "The amount of manipulation you must face in a day has to surpass any other occupation!"

Sara raised an eyebrow at this, her mouth curving into a half smile. "Even a politician?"

For the barest of moments Sara saw a look of shock cross Mark's face and then he let out a chuckle. "Touché, my dear Ms. Tancredi."

Encouraged, Sara couldn't help but add another jab. "The only difference is that you work with people who are smart enough not to get caught."

"Is that what you think?" he mused.

Sara played coy and used taking a sip of wine as an excuse not to answer.

"But you're changing the subject off yourself again. And that's fine if you don't want to talk about your work. I just want to let you know that if you need anyone to talk to, I'm here for you."

All in all, it was a sweet gesture—even if Sara had no intention of taking him up on it. "Thank you."

"Sure, I mean the Scofield-Burrow thing has everyone outside the prison worked up, so I can't imagine the effect it's had on you. You've actually met these psychopaths—had a professional relationship. For all you know you're one of their targets!"

The shock must have shown on Sara's face because Mark's face grew concerned.

"Don't tell me you haven't considered that?" he said with soft urgency. "You're father's worried sick that if they one day decide they need a hostage for leverage that they need look no further than the governor's daughter, whom they not only know, but who also likely doesn't have the sense to be afraid of the two brothers if she crosses them on the street."

"The sense?" Sara echoed, her voice edged with outrage. "I'm sorry, Mark, but I don't think you know me well enough to be making a judgment like that."

"Maybe I don't, but I can't help it if I'm worried."

Worried? Sara nearly laughed out loud, but reigned it back. "Thanks for the thought, but let me assure you that there are better things for you to worry about. Authorities are saying that the brothers fled to Mexico, and I hardly think it's likely they'll be taking me hostage from there."

Sara meant for this comment to close the subject, but for some reason it appeared to make Mark more agitated. This intrigued her even as it made her nervous. Was what was being reported in the media really a snow job on the public? A ploy to make the fugitives feel more comfortable in Chicago in hopes that they would get sloppy and slip up somewhere?

"Mark?" she said, watching his momentarily distant eyes instantly become social again. "Is there something you know that I don't on this subject?"

When he hesitated, Sara felt the knot in her stomach triple in size.

"Let's just put it this way," he said, wrapping his hand around hers. "Until all this plays out, I plan on staying very close to you. And unless you can convince me that you absolutely despise my presence, I'm not going to take no for an answer."

All and all, Sara was glad she hadn't flipped out at Mark's sudden declaration to keep close to her. The man was a politician with a busy social calendar, after all, and that meant whether he liked it or not, he was scheduled eighteen hours out of every day. Such was the life of a political social climber.

And yet even though he knew he wasn't physically around, Sara had an odd sense that she was being watched. Every moment she wasn't at work something felt off, but whatever it was, Sara couldn't point at it—except the tape. That was the one thing she was pretty sure she could point at and say something was off.

When Mark had come to pick her up last Friday she had been about forty-five minutes into the tape. When she had gotten home and popped it back in its player, the tape had been cued back to five minutes earlier, back to long before Michael had put his student on his shoulders.

She tried to justify that she might have accidentally pressed rewind instead of stop when she heard the door knock, but even that didn't make sense. If the tape had been rewinding from the time Mark knocked to when she pressed eject, it would have rewound a lot farther than five minutes.

But what other explanation was there? That someone had broken into her house and watched the tape while she was gone?

She laughed at the thought even as an uneasy feeling sat in her stomach. A gut feeling. The same kind of gut feelings she had had when Michael Scofield had shown up at Fox River. The kind of gut feelings she had ignored every time she dealt with him—telling herself that it was just her imagination.

Well, it hadn't been last time, so that meant… what, exactly? That someone had broken into her apartment and taken a look at the video of a holiday party?

Sara considered that and decided she would accept the idea, as irrational as it seemed. And as hyper-paranoid as it seemed that someone might actually be watching her, that was worth taking a closer look at as well.

One week. Sara would give herself one week to be actively paranoid before she officially declared herself a nutcase. 'One week,' she thought and then let out a groan of frustration.

"Damn you," she muttered under her breath, but refrained from saying his name.

Some people simply passed through one's life, coming and going as easily as a day passes, but then there were those select few that once they popped onto another's radar, they never really went off. Sara had never believed in fate—had defied too many times to put any stock in it, but damned if she didn't feel like she would never be free of the man whose name she suddenly feared to say in the privacy of her own home.

Because whether she was ready to admit it to herself or not, deep down she knew someone was not only listening, but waiting for her to make some unforeseen move.

Feeling fidgety, Sara grabbed her keys and decided to eat out for the night.

It had been only three days, not a week, and Sara was officially paranoid. Well, not paranoid, really. She was actually kind of proud of herself on a primitive level. She had sensed something was off in her life and given herself a week to prove her instincts right or wrong. The next day she had taken a good, albeit casual, look around when she went to her car to leave for work and noticed a shiny black sedan parked three blocks down her street in the direction she never drove.

At first she had done nothing more than take a mental note of the car, as she had several others parked on the street, and driven off to work.

That night, when she had come home the sedan had not been there, but lo and behold if it didn't pass her house two minutes later. Sara had put on her jogging shoes and set off for a work out—looking down the street and finding exactly what she thought she would. That same black sedan parked in the same spot it had been in that morning.

Heart racing at the realization, she had turned and run the other direction down the street.

The next morning a silver sedan had been parked where the black had been before, and when she was half way to work that morning she had noticed the sedan five cars behind her at a light.

She was being tailed. And even as she felt hunted, a purr of excitement raced through her that she at least knew where the odd sensation was coming from. As long as she knew that then she had a certain level of control over the situation.

Sara looked at her hands, which were damp and shaking. Adrenaline. It was racing through her body as swiftly as if a bear were chasing her up a mountain. She needed to talk to Mark. The last time they had spoken he had made it seem that he knew much more on the subject of why someone might be watching her than she did herself, and it was time she learned why that was.

If it was about Michael, then she was safe. She was pretty sure he would never be contacting her again.

But if it was something else, then she needed to prepare herself for what was to come.

Another 5-star restaurant, another Brooks Brothers suit, only this time Sara had ordered the Catch of the Day.

"Thanks for fitting me in tonight, Mark," Sara began, stopping herself before she absently poked the fish with her fork.

"Not at all," he smiled, his eyes warm. "It doesn't take much to talk me into having dinner with a beautiful woman."

"I'm flattered," Sara replied, but was too preoccupied to feel any honest pleasure at the compliment. "But I have to confess that I had ulterior motives in asking to spend the night with you."

He arched a brow. "Spend the night, hmm? I was wondering when you'd ask."

This time Sara did blush. "I didn't mean—I mean, it's not that you're not—"

A laugh boomed out of the man. "I'm sorry. I couldn't resist. Please, go on with what you were saying."

Sara opened her mouth to try, but felt a tug of hesitation. She paused for moment, and reconsidered her approach. "It's just that the last time we were together you seemed concerned about my welfare, and I was curious as to what you know that has you feeling that way."

Mark's eyes lost their twinkle and for several moments he watched her. "Those are things I'm not allowed to discuss, Sara. If it were up to me, I would. But it's not."

"But you think I'm in danger."

He nodded. "Yes, I think there is a distinct possibility of that."

"From who? Can you at least tell me that? Who do you think might be after me?"

His brow furrowed as if he were confused by the question. "I can't believe you're that naive, Sara. I told you last time where the threat lies."

Michael? The man had to be kidding.

"Sara, you actually knew these men, so I don't have to tell you that Scofield is considered to be a brilliant man. He tests into the realm of genius and men like that don't act based on what they feel. They act according to reason and reason alone. This has to stay between me and you, but just so you know how much I care I will tell you that there is not an authority in this state that believes Scofield and Burrows jumped the border. Neither of their psych profiles make such action within the realm of possibility for these two men. Burrows is out for revenge and Scofield is his method of getting it. No, they are most certainly still in the state."

Sara's heart jack hammered in her chest as she listened. "Revenge? For what?"

"He thinks he was wronged," Mark said with disgust. "Burrows knows someone turned him in and he wants to take them out. It was brilliant of him to get his brother believing in his innocence. I don't know how he talked his little brother into throwing away his future to save him, but he did it, and now neither of them will stop until Burrows gets what he wants."

"And what's that?"

Mark's eyes narrowed, deciding something. "Burrows wasn't just hired to kill the Vice President's brother," he confided. "It is believed that his next target is the Vice President herself."

Sara didn't know what to say when Mark dropped her off at home. The man obviously believed every word he had told her that night, but none of it seemed to fit with what she was feeling. Plus it didn't explain the rotating cars down the street from her house.

How would two fugitives from justice arrange something like that?

But she kept her mouth shut, if for no other reason than because it felt like the right thing to do.

"Thanks for dinner," she said as they walked up the outside steps. "And for the conversation. I needed it."

"I hope I helped. I'm serious when I say you need to be careful, Sara. If you so much as catch wind of those fugitives I want you calling the police in the same breath. And run! You understand me? Get away from them as fast as you can!" He stepped in, close enough that Sara could feel his body heat. "I just met you, and I don't want to lose you if I can help it."

Sara was literally speechless. The mood had changed so quickly she didn't have time to process it, and when his lips were suddenly upon hers Sara could do nothing but freeze until he pulled away.

He brushed her hair away from her face. "You're not ready are you?"

Ready? Sara nearly laughed in reply. Not only was she not ready, she hadn't even thought about 'it.' Mark clearly had, though, as was witnessed by the ungentlemanly fashion with which his right hand had drifted down her backside. Sara very gently removed it.

"I'm sorry," she said softly. "It just seems too fast." It was a reasonable response, especially considering the fact that she was under surveillance and anyone who had their eyes on her would think the governor's daughter was easy if she invited Mark in. Plus there was the simple fact that she honestly had no desire to sleep with him. It may have been true that she hadn't had a man in nearly as long as she had had a needle, but in that moment Sara wasn't tempted by either.

"That's fine," he said, and dropped another kiss on her cheek. "When you're ready."

Such confidence in voice, Sara mused. As if he considered it inevitable that they would end up between the sheets. Her jaw clenched slightly.

"Good night," she said softly and put the front door between them.

The man had confidence. She had to give him that. And he was probably used to getting what he wanted, but if he wanted her he wasn't half as close as he thought he was. Sara wasn't the type of woman to have a man fight her battles for her, and especially not in exchange for sex. It may look all romantic and glamorous in the movies to have a man in your bed who got up in the night to face off intruders, but in life there were complications. Sara knew them first hand and had made a lifestyle out of avoiding them.

Still, all considered, it was flattering to have an offer.

Stopping by her mailbox she grabbed the days mail and a small brown box caught her attention. Was she expecting a package? She checked the return address which said simply: Read on your balcony.

What the hell?

Not knowing why, Sara tucked the box into her purse and let herself into her apartment. She threw the rest of her mail on the counter without looking at it and made her way to her bedroom.

'Am I actually going to do this?' she asked herself. She got a package that said to open it on her balcony and she was just going to do it? Why?

Sara knew why even before she went onto her balcony. Her hands were unsteady as she untaped the box. She laughed at herself for being a spaz. She could remove a bullet from another person with laser-like precision, while one little box in the mail had her fumbling about like she had never opened a package before.

Finally, with an indelicate rip, the box was open. Sara paused, unable to look into it immediately. After all, what if she was wrong? What if she was—

"Enough!" Sara grumbled, and dumped the contents into her hand.

Two things fell out of the small box. One was a folded piece of paper. And lying on top of it, an origami flower.

Heart racing, Sara reached for the folded piece of paper and unfolded it. Inside was a short, type-written letter:

I had promised to keep away from you, but it appears I have brought trouble to your door. You have the right to know what I know, but I will leave the choice up to you. If you decide you want to know, follow these instructions:

Take the box out from under your patio chair

Inside will be a hooded sweatshirt. Put it on with the hood up and blocking your face.

Leave you house and walk to the park three blocks away. Don't worry, you will be safe. Bring this note with you.

Walk past the bathrooms to the swing set

When you feel someone grab you, don't scream. It's me.

We will have approximately ten minutes to speak. I will tell you everything I can in that time.

Put on a pair of blue jeans.

Do NOT bring your car.

Do NOT wear your coat.

Sara felt her breath catch as excitement flooded into her. She glanced over to her patio chair and noticed that there was indeed a box under it. Dropping to her knees she quickly opened it and saw a dark hoodie inside. Before she could even think, she picked it up and smelled it.

It was new. Damn.

The decision of putting it on merited at least the semblance of a moral debate, but Sara wasn't interested in being careful. Every instinct in her told her not to be, and so after tripping into her pants, she was out the door before the hoodie was fully over her head with the package and all its contents still in her hands.

She took her usual route down the street, walking quickly. She wondered if the men in the sedan had seen her, and if so, would they follow her. How would she know and how could she lose them?

Sara had three blocks to think about how stupid she was being, but she was too excited to care. Michael would have answers for her. She knew it. She was long past being in a position to help him, and they both knew he owed her big time. Or at least he thought he did. And being who he was, there was no reason for him to expose himself if he honestly wasn't worried about her safety.

Was there?

Sara felt a moment of doubt, but her feet kept on moving. She had come too far now. She needed to see it through.

After what seemed ages, the small playground came into Sara's view. She was almost there and her feet were beginning to move faster of their own accord. She couldn't know for sure, but if she had to guess she would say that the men in the car had followed her even though she dare not turn around to see if she was the only one on the street.

The intensity of the situation hit Sara as soon as her feet hit the grass. How could she talk to Michael when someone knew exactly where they were? How could she—

A squeal escaped Sara's throat as a hand reached out from the shadows and grabbed her arm. The next thing she felt was a hand slap over her mouth while another arm pulled her in tightly.

"It's me," a familiar voice whispered even as Sara saw someone dressed exactly like her step out from the shadows and walk into the night. "Relax," Michael soothed. "I'm not here to hurt you."

Despite the oddness of the situation, Sara found it strangely easy to relax. She kind of wished Michael would take his hand off her mouth, but it was a nice distraction from the fact that his other arm holding her tightly flush against him so as to keep them both in the darkness of the shadows.

He held her that way for nearly a minute, his eyes piercing into the night, clearly waiting for something. Sara was more interested in the person who had taken her place on the street, but took the hint from the hand covering her mouth that it was not the time to talk about it.

Then she saw what Michael was waiting for—a man shadowing her replacement silently from the opposite side of the street. Michael waited until the man was out of sight and relaxed his grip and eased away.

"She's going to go once around the neighborhood and then we'll have to trade you back," he explained.

"You arranged for a decoy?" Sara nearly laughed. "Who is it?"

"Veronica. Did you know you were being followed?"

Sara nodded.

His eyes turned sad. "I'm sorry, Sara. I really am. I had no idea when all this started that it would become as deep as it has."

"Save the apologies for later, Michael. Right now I'll just settle for what you know about what's going on."

His eyes looked troubled, and at first seemed reluctant to meet hers.

"You are being followed by a group of people called The Company. They're the ones that framed my brother to begin with."

Sara wanted to believe him, but couldn't quite make herself. "Why would they frame your brother for killing Steadman?"

Michael's eyes finally met hers. "My father. He disappeared before I was born and I never knew him. He left us to become part of this group and rise in its ranks. He's the one who blew the whistle on Steadman's company and they used framing Lincoln to try to flush him out into the open."

There was a ring of truth in his words that had Sara's heart giving a heavy thud. "Did they succeed?"

"Ultimately, yes, but that's not what I came here to tell you. They've been watching you pretty heavily for a little while now, and they seem to be formulating a plan around you as well."

"Me? Why me?"

There was an uncomfortable pause. "My guess would be that they want to flush me out and they believe you're the person most likely to draw me out of hiding."

Like all awkward moments, the silence following his statement wasn't planned and neither of them knew how to push past it.

"Is that true?" Sara finally managed.

Michael shrugged, but his eyes didn't move off of hers. "I'm here, aren't I?"

His hand reached out and gently gripped her arm. "Sara, these guys don't play fair. They've wired you house, have a tracker on your car and even have your coat wired. They hear half the things you say in a day, if not more. I'm sure they've been trying to decide if you have contact with me. And then there's…" he trailed off.

"There's what?" Sara prompted.

He sighed. "Sara, I have to confess that I've been watching you the past couple of days myself. I had to in order to know how I could contact you safely. I swear I would have done it otherwise, but that said I have to ask if you have honest feelings for this Mark guy."

"Mark?" The question caught her so off guard that she had no ready answer.

"And before you answer let me confess that I saw you come home with him. You have a right to see any man you want, Sara, that's not why I'm asking about him."

He had seen Mark kiss her… and he was standing there saying he was okay with it? As irrational as it was, Sara felt anger grip her. "Then why are you?"

His eyes held hers for several moments and Sara could almost see the gears behind them working.

"Because he's one of them," he finally finished. "He works for The Company and tomorrow he's going to call you up and ask you join him at a fund raiser as his date on the day after tomorrow."

"Day after tomorrow," Sara murmured. "I think I have something that night. Or at least I have the day bookmarked for something…" Then it came to her. "That's the day your divorce is finalized."

The corner of his mouth curved. "I guess it is, but I think you're missing the point here, Sara. I don't know much, but I'll tell you what I think I know. After the fundraiser is over, a limo will come to pick you and Mark up. Mark will motion for you to get in first and as you are getting in his phone will ring. He will ask to take the call outside the limousine and tell you that he will join you in just a moment. The door will then shut, the doors will lock, and the driver will take off with you in the car while Mark is left at the scene appearing completely innocent of any wrongdoing."

It sounded too outrageous to believe. "What happens then?"

"I don't know," Michael replied solemnly. "I came here tonight to give you the choice of whether or not you want to find out."

"And if I don't go with Mark?"

"He will simply find another opportunity to do something similar, with or without your cooperation."

Sara watched the man in front of her for a moment, trying to see through even one of his impenetrable layers. "And what would your plan be?"

"You can do whatever you want," he said matter-of-factly. "But if you decide you'd rather disappear in another way, I will be in the crawl space in the ladies' room. All you need to do is go in there and lock the door when you're sure you are alone. Say my name then and I'll get you out of there."

Sara couldn't hide a smile. "Just like old times? Toxic mold and all?"

"Just like old times," he agreed.

She considered what he was offering. "I could double-cross you and bring the cops there."

He nodded. "You could, and that would solve both your problems in all likelihood."

"But you're willing to chance that."

His voice was quiet. "Apparently."

They watched each other for a moment.

"And what happens once I'm on the wrong side of the law with you?"

"I would assume the same thing that would happen if you were abducted by the limousine. An innocent Mark will raise hell trying to find you and your father will call out for the militia."

"And you're ready to take that heat?"

"It's not like I haven't dealt with it before," he mused. "And if it's a choice between that and having someone hold a gun to your head and saying they'll pull the trigger unless I hand my brother over to them, then yes. I can handle that." His eyes flicked to the edge of the park. "Damn, that went fast. She's back."

Sara followed the path of his eyes and saw Veronica heading their direction.

They needed more time.

"I guess that will have to be enough for now. When she walks into this shadow, you need to walk out. No hesitation, okay?"

Sara nodded, her mouth drying as her mind caught up to everything Michael had just told her. Mark was the one watching her? It made sense. The man was awfully convenient, but still she couldn't imagine he would be willing to kill her. That just seemed impossible.

"Let me get one thing straight," Sara said as Veronica got closer. "If I go with you, I'm on the run with you until your brother's cleared?"

She felt him hesitate before answering. "Until you're safe. Only until then."

Their eyes met and Sara didn't reply. Wasn't sure what to say.

His last words came out hushed and hurried. "Once upon a time, I had a future, Sara, but I made the choice to give that all away. I know I can't take that back, but I promise you if you come with me I will do everything I can to make sure you get the life you deserve. A lot of people lost their futures because of what I've done, Sara. If I had a future, I would give it to you, but since I don't all I can is make sure knowing me doesn't rob you of what you of yours. That's why I'll be in that crawl space, Sara, whether you call the cops on me or not. Now walk."

His push was less than gentle, but timely. Veronica stepped into the shadows just as Sara stumbled out, making it look like she had tripped in the dark. Sara walked to the swing set and sat for a moment, hoping it looked like she was just taking a moment of contemplation when inside her mind was trying to wrap around everything she had just heard.

She had a lot of serious decisions to make, and only forty-eight hours to make them in.

It had all happened just like Michael said. Mark had called and invited her to a last minute fundraiser—as if such things existed. It merely meant that he had only decided last minute that his presence would be profitable. Sara hadn't known what she would say in that moment until it rolled off her tongue.

"Sounds fun."

Fun? Who the hell was she kidding? But she'd said it. And because she said it, she was dressed in a black formal shaking the hands of a congressman who regarded her with disinterest until he heard her last name.

"Tancredi?" he said as if it were a fine wine. "You must be Frank's daughter."

"Yes," Sara said simply, then tried to look like she cared as the man prattled on about his fond memories of her father. She was used to people trying to be nice to her because they thought her dad might care what she thought of them. It was tiresome, but she was used to it… or at least, she should be used to it.

It didn't matter either way.

She checked her watch and noted the time. It was quarter to eleven and she had work the next day. Medical school had taught her to get by on five to six hours of sleep, but that didn't mean she wanted to hang with a bunch of ingratiating politicians for the rest of the night.

Mark must have noticed her distraction, because he stepped in at the next available opportunity. "I'm afraid Ms. Tancredi and I need to step away. It's getting late and we have work early tomorrow."

What was he? A mind reader? Even if he was, Sara didn't miss how he was now referring to them as 'we.'

Sara smiled and said her goodbyes as Mark's hand came to rest on the small of her back. Given what Michael had told her, she wasn't quite sure how to respond to Mark's touch. Acting normal, she assumed, was the best course of action, but the truth was that she felt nothing at all when Mark placed his hands on her. Numb. It was odd.

"Thank you," she said softly as they turned away from the congressman's group.

"Not at all," he said easily. "It was rude for me to keep you as long as I did."

"That's fine, but I really should be getting home."

He smiled. "I deduced that from the way you looked at your watch."

Sara felt a rush of shame that stemmed knowing how appalled her father would be that she had been caught staring at her watch in front of an elected official. "Was I that obvious? I'm sorry."

"No problem. Shall we get your cloak?"

Sara nodded and felt her heart rate pick up. She had to make a decision and Mark was making it very difficult for her to do it. The man was so kind—so well mannered. The thought of him being part of what Michael said he was was unthinkable. And yet here she was thinking it. Contemplating it.

For reassurance Sara's hand moved to the place where a piece of paper was sandwiched between her cleavage and her dress. Would she use the paper now, or keep it for Plan B?

At the coat check Mark exchanged a ticket for Sara's cloak and held it out for her with the flourish of a gentleman. Sara almost felt guilty as she let him wrap it around her. He had arranged for the motion to be the perfect set up for a very gentle kiss and Sara felt like screaming in confusion. If he was really only two minutes from having her abducted wouldn't something be off? Wouldn't he be less than charming? Wouldn't she at least sense it?

Because Sara wanted to act natural too, she allowed him to press his lips against hers and marveled again that she felt nothing. Kisses were so personal, you usually felt something!

He offered his arm. "May I?"

She took it, smiling up at him. "Of course."

And they walked, all the while Sara thinking something must have gone wrong. Michael had been right about everything up to here. How he knew what he knew, she didn't know, but the last move in his play book was obviously off. Her heart raced, wanting to run even as she forced them to walk.

The limousine that had picked them up sat on the curb waiting for them as they descended the reception hall's front steps. Sara felt her breath grow uneven, then forced herself to remain calm. Staying clam meant holding her breath, but that was better than panting, so she did that until the chauffeur stepped out of the car and opened the door for them.

Mark's phone wasn't ringing. Shouldn't it be ringing right now? Did that mean Michael was wrong? Should she get in?

"Ma'am," the chauffer said as he offered his hand to help her in. Sara stepped forward and took it.

"Thank you." Sara sat first, bringing her feet as she realized she had to got through with Plan B whether the phone rang or not. She would try to make it appear as natural as possible, but she would look like a ditz.

"Mark, I –"

His phone rang and time stopped.

'This isn't possible,' Sara thought. It simply wasn't. How could it be?

Mark held up his finger and answered his phone with his name, "Mark Knight…. Yes?" He looked at Sara, covering the receiver with his hand. "I need to take this. Do you mind?"

Sara looked up at his poster boy smile and felt a steeling calm come over her. "Not at all. I just realized I left my purse at the coat check. I'll go grab it real fast."

Mark's smile only for a second before he nodded.

"Stay here," Sara said as she stepped out of the limo. "I'll be right back."

He nodded and Sara felt his eyes on her as she made her way back up the steps as calmly as she could.

Seeing someone speed walk in a formal and heels was not exactly an everyday sight, so Sara got a few interesting looks as she passed through the reception hall's front entry. She got double the looks when she reached down the front of her dress and dug out the coat check ticket she had stowed away after secretly checking her purse during a feigned trip to the bathroom earlier that night.

Unconcerned at her behavior, Sara let them look as she walked up to the coat check and handed them the ticket. The man disappeared for a moment, then returned.

"Your purse, ma'am," he said graciously.

Sara muttered her thanks and headed straight for the bathroom, where two women sat primping in front of the mirror.

Dammit!... Dammit! Dammit! Dammit! Sara was careful not to say the words out loud as she joined them at the mirror and fumbled to take her lip gloss out of her purse. She'd never really been one for lipstick, but it seemed rather pathetic to be putting on $10 lip gloss when you were primping next to women with $100 manicures and lips as inflated and red as a baboon's butt.

It seemed like a ridiculous time to feel silly, but how could she not when she was pretending to fix up her pretty much non-existent make up while two socialites looked at her through the corner of their eyes like she was a twelve year old?

'Just get the hell out of here!' was all she could think as she checked her watch. She'd only been away from Mark ninety seconds. He probably wasn't looking for her yet, but if these women kept going on the way they were going, then she'd be here another ten minutes.

Sara looked over the women with the eyes of a physician. They were both skinny and fake baked with minimal muscular definition. One of the women had porcelain veneers while the other woman bleached teeth that showed premature aging. Sara made a snap judgment.

"Excuse me," she said, bursting in on their frivolous conversation. "But can I ask you ladies to step out for a moment? I'm kind of in a hurry and there's something I need to do in here that I'd rather be alone for."

One of the lady's mouths fell open while the other smiled at her slyly, but they weren't moving.

"Please?" Sara pled. "If I wait much longer I might actually start digesting, and heaven knows I don't stay this skinny by actually eating!"

She could tell the moment the words were out of her mouth that she had hit the nose right on the head.

"Sure," the one with veneers said. "We were just heading out anyway."

"Thanks," Sara smiled as they left and then locked the door behind them.

"Does that mean you want me gone, too?" a voice called out from one of the stalls, nearly causing Sara to trip over herself.

Of all the humiliating situations to be in!

"Yeah, if you don't mind. Thanks!"

She heard a flush and a few seconds later an elderly woman popped out of the stall. Sara vaguely recognized her, but didn't let herself think too much about it. Surely if she recognized the woman, the woman recognized her.

She took her time washing her hands and gave Sara a piteous look on her way out.

"There's better ways to live," she said, patting Sara's arm.

"You're right," Sara agreed, and held the door open for the woman. "Have a great night."

The woman smiled piteously and shuffled out.

Sara didn't mean to slam the door behind her, but she did just that, locking the dead bolt and checking her watch. It had been over four minutes, and it was very realistic that Mark could be looking for her by now.

"Michael," she hissed. "Michael!"

She was looking at the ceiling as she called out, wondering where in the world it opened up and how she was going to get up there with or without Michael's help.

"Right here," she heard Michael's whisper and began looking around frantically.

His had reached down from the corner where the handicapped stall was and Sara covered the distance between them in record time. Looking up at him through the hole she felt an inexplicable sense of relief.

"How did you know?" she asked in a rush. "How did you know what would happen tonight?"

"Later," he whispered. "Mark's already in the building and looking for you. We have to go now!"

His hand reached even lower and when Sara realized she would have to use the toilet as a stepping stone to reach him, she cursed herself for wearing heels. All in all it hadn't been a very forward thinking or practical move, considering the circumstances.

Well, it was past time to worry about that.

There was an abrupt thump as someone ran into the bathroom door, obviously thinking it would open when pushed. It didn't. There was another push and then someone knocked.

"Hello?... Someone in there?"

"Now or never, Sara," Michael said, his eyes urgent.

The words echoed in Sara's ears and she knew she was indeed at the point of no return when she placed the ball of her foot on the edge of the toilet and launched her hand up to grip Michael's forearm.

Sara could do little more than hang on as Michael hauled her up into the bathroom's ceiling. Once he had her up, he set her neatly to the side and replaced the hole's cover. Sara was immediately struck at how small the space was. She'd be lucky if she crawl, and would more than likely have to army crawl to wherever he was leading her.

She looked down at her black dress, which was now barely visible in the darkness, and sighed. She actually liked this dress. It actually made her look like she had a chest worth looking twice at in addition to accentuating her slender waist.

And now she was going to use it to the marvelous end of crawling through dust bunnies… or worse. Sara tried not to think about that.

"Are you going to be able to move in that?" Michael whispered, turning on a flashlight.

"I guess I'm going to have to," she replied, still not totally enamored with idea.

Michael held up a backpack.

"What's that?" she asked.

"I took the liberty of picking up some of your things I thought might be appropriate for the occasion. It's risky to change now, but it might be riskier not to. How fast can you get out of that?"

She had the presence of mind to come up with a coy reply before voicing a practical one. "Fast!" Only then did she see he had a cell phone.

"Where is he?" he said into, then waited for the response. "Change," he said to Sara. "I'll block this in the mean time."

Without wasting a moment he handed her the backpack and turned his attention to the slab he had pulled out of the ceiling.

Sara opened the backpack to see what she was dealing with and wasn't surprised to see a dark pair of her jeans and the hoodie from the previous night. Also included were a pair of sneakers with dark socks. Sara breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the hoodie. In yet another non-forward thinking moment she had worn a dress with a built in bra to accommodate how low the back was cut. That meant if she changed she would have no support upstairs, and the only thing worse than that would be if she was forced to wear a white t-shirt or something similar that would make her state of affairs all too evident.

All things considered, she had never been more happy to see a black hoodie.

She slipped the dress off first. It took a little longer than usual because of the cramped space, but she still managed to get the dress off and the hoodie and jeans on in under a minute. The shoes were a different story and something told her it was a bad idea to use time to put them on at that moment.

"I'll do the shoes later," she whispered, and Michael turned to face her.

"Fine. Put your stuff in the bag and let's go."

She did, after which he slung the bag over his shoulder.

"Now follow me. We have to move fast. And quietly." Then into the phone. "I'm hanging up now. See you on the outside."

Then he moved, army crawling as Sara had suspected they might, and moving as fast as he had promised. Somehow he managed to do all this without making a sound, but Sara was less successful. It seemed every time she moved something boomed in response.

"Use your arms," Michael hissed back at her. "Your knees are hitting up against the sides."

'Duh,' she wanted to call back, but using her legs was the only way she could keep up with him. Her arms weren't as strong as his. She tried a few more crawls, with very little improvement. Suddenly a flashlight was shining back on her.

"Here!" A rope feel in front of her face. "Just hold on."

"Michael, I can—"

"This is not a time to argue, Sara. It's a time to get out of here however we can. Now just hold on!"

Reluctantly she did so, surprised at the first jerk she felt when he started to move again, and then growing accustomed to smoothly sliding along the paneling beneath her. They were going a little slower than before, but they weren't making sounds anymore. Or rather, she wasn't making any more noises.

She was just getting comfortable when suddenly Michael disappeared.

"Okay, you can let go now," she heard him say.

She did so and the rope disappeared just before she shined the flashlight on his face so she could see that he was now in a much more vertical space.

"Now we get to climb. We're lucky. This building is old enough that the elevator shafts have ladders. We're going to take those up to the roof, using the connecting roofs to go over to the next building and exit there. Do you understand?"

Sara nodded, happy for the opportunity to go from a state of claustrophobia to vertigo as she peeked over the ledge of the crawl space.

Damn, this all looked much more glamorous in the movies! Still, Sara didn't let the drop below her stop her from gripping on the ancient ladder on her right and start up after Michael, who had quickly moved up to give her room.

Sara had never climbed five stories of ladder before, but definitely wasn't something she was putting on her to-do list to accomplish again any time soon. It wasn't that she was a wimp, but when did people ever do things like this in real life breathing in air that smelled and tasted like engine grease and hadn't been recycled in who knew how long?

When Michael reached the top and popped the trapdoor, Sara nearly sighed in relief, but the air was still thick and she decided to save that until she was actually on the roof. Still, seeing the stars twinkle at her gave her hope that they were actually going to pull this insanity off.

What they would do then, she had no idea, but somewhere in the past twenty minutes successfully getting away with Michael had become fundamentally important to her.

Once he was on the roof, Michael reached down to help Sara up as well.

"I never thought Chicago air could smell this good," she said before her feet were even on the roof.

"Yeah, sorry about that. We're almost there—"

Sara wasn't sure why he stopped speaking until she watched him pull the cell phone out of his pocket. "Yeah?... Are you sure?... Fine. Got it." He hung up. "They're on their way up here, Mark and his men. I don't know how, but they know we're up here."

Sara swore under her breath as he took off the backpack and yanked it open. Without hesitation he ripped out her purse and held it up. "Anything you need in here? Driver's license? Credit card?"

"Yeah. There's—"

He didn't wait for a response before he tugged it open, removed her wallet and quickly dragged out her ID and the credit cards he saw and handed them to her.

"Put those in your pocket. I'm sorry, but we're going to have to ditch the rest of this just in case."

Sara nodded, having a clue what he was thinking as his hand gripped her and urged her to follow him as he ran to the edge of the building overlooking the street. Without hesitating, he hurled the purse into the night and then turned and led her the opposite way.

"They'll know we ditched, but if that's how they're tracking up then at least they won't know where we're going from here."

Sara was speechless. What could she say really as they ran through the darkness to the roof access door of the neighboring building? Michael opened the door, led them through it, then shut and locked it behind them.

"You okay?" he asked, to which Sara nodded.

"Good, because we're not out of the woods yet. Stay close!"

He had led her down at least ten flights of stairs before they came to one that ha d been left slightly ajar. Michael opened it, kicking the door stop out of the stairwell and leading her into what appeared to be office space.

"After following us to the roof, they'll assume we came here, which means we can't just run out the front doors. They'll have those covered," he explained.

"But if we stay here, they'll find us," Sara said, not liking the direction things were going.

Michael took in their surroundings, his mind appearing to process things Sara couldn't see.

"They're going to expect it if we move into the crawl space again," he said, not necessarily to her.

"But at least there, don't we have a chance?" Sara argued.

Michael took his time in replying. "They're not going to expect us to be out in the open, so that's where we'll have to be."

"Excuse me? Michael, that's suicide!"

"Follow me," he said, grapping her hand and leading her from cubicle to cubicle. He apparently didn't like what he saw, because he kept on moving. When they passed an office that was open Michael walked in and threw the backpack under the desk. When Sara raised an eyebrow at the move, he simply said, "In case they're still tracking it," and moved on.

The search seemed to last forever, and when they found what he was looking for, Sara immediately objected.

"Michael, no! Two children could barely fit in that, not to mention us!"

"Which is why they won't look in it," he defended.

Sara eyed the portable metal closet in front of them. True it was a good six feet tall, which meant she'd be able to stand up straight, but it was neither wide nor deep and the thought of being there with another person made her feel claustrophobic.

"Is there even ventilation, or are we just supposed to pass out?"

Michael opened the closet door and pushed all the hangars to one side. His hand moved down to his hip and came back up with a pocket knife. He pressed the point of the blade against the back of the closet before slamming the heel of his hand into the base of the knife and pushing the blade out the back until it hit the neighboring cubicle wall.

"Get in," he said, putting the knife back in his pocket. He stepped in, following his own instructions. Sara still hesitated.

"Michael, that's got to be the most unsafe place to be in a time like this. A five year old could find us here!"

"And that's exactly why a bunch of middle-aged men won't. Now you've got to trust me, Sara. Do you think I want to get caught tonight?"

Sara shook her head.

"Then get in before they walk in on us arguing."

His hand reached out for her then, hooking around to her back and pulling her in with one quick gesture. Before she knew it, she was in with the thin metal door closed behind her.

The fit was tight, just as Sara knew it would be. Michael stood with his back to the air hole, giving Sara a straight shot at it as she stood with her back to the doors. The portable closet wasn't wide enough for them to stand shoulder-to-shoulder, so half their bodies overlapped as the congested air grew hot around them.

"How long do we stay here?" Sara whispered.

"Until Linc tells us we're clear," he mouthed into her ear.

They resumed their silence until Sara wondered if anyone was coming at all. She knew better than to say anything, though. Then she noticed him fidgeting, as if he was trying find a position where he wouldn't be making contact with her.

"What are you doing?"

He didn't answer right away. "Nothing. Don't worry about it."

"Don't worry about it? You're about to pop the doors open and announce to the world where we are. This was your idea, now hold still!"

He did… for a moment. "I'm sorry, Sara," he whispered against her ear, "but I've got to ask. Are you wearing a bra?"

She almost laughed. The situation was just ridiculous enough to call for it, but she settled for snickering against his shoulder.

"Well, hell," he muttered. "And here I thought things couldn't get more awkward than they had been in your office."

"When you were pretending you liked me?" she shot back, more interested than she would like to be in his response.

"Pretending, huh? Well, unless you hold still you're going to find out exactly how good I am at 'pretending' to like you."

It was dark, so she didn't fight the blush that crept to her cheeks as they both heard something. His hand moved to her mouth in a hushing gesture and then stayed there as footsteps fell all around them.

"Nothing!" someone called out. "They've got to be way past here by now!"

"The exits are covered. They're here somewhere!"

It amazed Sara how being in the metal closet actually amplified the voices around them, making them very easy to understand.

"How the hell are we supposed to get in those ceilings? Scofield must have gotten the blueprints in advance."

"Just check the floor and move on. We know they're here somewhere."

The talking stopped as the men did as they were instructed. It became difficult to hear them then, and Sara had to strain to hear the occasional soft footfall. Until they moved past the closet.

Sara's heart caught in her throat, her body tensing as she realized that a man had just run past them. When there was a jerk on their closet door, Sara thought they were done for. But to her amazement, the door didn't budge and the man quickly moved away.

Heart pounding, adrenaline pumping, Sara found her face buried in Michael's chest where she had stifled a startled scream.

It was still dark. They were still safe. And damn if she wasn't discovering how one type of tension could lead to another with very little motivation.

Doors slammed and their floor grew silent.

"It's okay," Michael whispered, his hand moving to trace the outside of her face. "That was the worst of it. Now we just have to wait a little longer and we'll be out of here."

He pushed the hair from her face in a very soothing gesture and Sara let herself enjoy the moment, forgetting that men with guns were running about with sinister intent. How long had it been since she had been like this with a man?

Well, locked in a cramped closet with next to no air, hiding from men with guns? She could say with confidence that she had never before been in this situation exactly, but even without the guns and the closet. How long had it been since she had just—

Sara nearly jumped out of her skin when she felt something vibrate. She pushed away from Michael, but got nowhere.

"What the hell is that?" she hissed.

"My phone," he replied. "It's on vibrate."

It rang again. God! She had most certainly never been in a situation like this! "Answer it, dammit!"

"It's gotta be Linc. Sorry, but it's in my pocket and if I reach down to get it I'll—"

"I'll survive," she snapped, knowing exactly where his hand would have to go. "Just pick up the damn phone."

There were some awkward adjustments as he reached down and tried to do just that.

On the next ring, she couldn't take any more. "Michael, just let me out."

"But it may not be—"

"If it wasn't safe, your brother wouldn't be calling. Now let me out!"

He didn't pause half as long as she thought he would, and it was with the utmost relief Sara fell through the doors as they sprung open.

"I'm here," she heard Michael say into the phone while she kept her back to him and started to shake with laughter.

What in the world would be next?

It was obvious the night wasn't going as planned. Even though his face was as expressive as granite, Sara could feel the tension bleeding out of him. He had led them back to the roof where they had returned to exactly where they had started. The reception hall.

They made their move none too soon, because as they were climbing back down the trap door, police showed up at the neighboring building.

"That means Mark and his chauffeur aren't looking anymore," Michael said. "They'll be giving reports to the police and since Linc said there were only four men, that leaves two henchmen looking for us, unless they called in reinforcements."

He held the trap door open for her, but hesitated in climbing down after her.

"This is worse than getting out of the prison," he mumbled.

Sara stopped her decent. "What?"

He rubbed his hand over his short hair. "When I broke Linc out, I had two plans. When the first one bombed, that's when I came to you."

"Michael, are you sure this is the best time to be talking about this?"

Both of his hands came up and rubbed his face, stopping when they came to a prayer position over his mouth. "The difference was I didn't care about getting hurt then. If Linc got shot that night, at least it was on his terms."

"Michael," she said softly. "You're rambling and we don't have much time."

His hands rubbed over his head again. "I just can't think of a way that isn't dangerous. Do matter where we go—"

"Michael, look at me," she commanded. He did. "You've done everything right so far and, whatever happens, I trust you right now, okay? I know I shouldn't, but I do, so just tell me what to do and I'll do it."

He paused then, his eyes regaining their focus. "Going back into that building is suicide. Cops have dogs, and if they think we're in there, they just might bring them."

Sara moved up the ladder until her shoulders were above the trapdoor. "What do we do then?"

His eyes were lasers, hypnotic. "Move and move fast. The ballsy approach. You afraid of heights?"

Sara hesitated. "Depends."

He held out his hand pull her up. "You just said you trust me." He walked away from her and took the backpack from his back. "If you really mean that, I might just have a way to have us out of here in the next few minutes."

"Then why didn't we just do that in the first place?"

"Because we'll be fully exposed and it involves you trusting that I won't drop you."

That didn't sound very encouraging. "Okay."

He whipped a harness out of the bag and the rope he had had her hold on to earlier.

"You're kidding," Sara breathed, then walked to the edge of the building to look down. They were easily five stories up. "They'll see us in a second."

"If they come to the back of the building," he corrected.

Sara eyed the rope. "Is that long enough?"

"Not to take us to the ground," he replied. "But it will get us to the lower balcony."

Sara bit her lip and tried to be optimistic. "How will we get the harness up and down?"

"We won't," he said quickly, tying the rope off. "You'll have to hold onto me."

"Hold on?" she hissed. "For five stories?"

He tightened the belts on his harness. "You'll be on top, so that will make things easier."

She raised an eyebrow. "On top?"

"Yeah, kind of a reverse piggyback."

"I know the position," she snapped, her voice edgy.

He smiled then, his eyes mischievous, and as much as she fought it, she found herself smiling back.

"What a night," she breathed.

He chuckled. "I promise I won't try anything."

She looked down to the pavement below and her stomach gave a little dive. "Yeah, with fifty feet of nothing but air between us and solid rock, you'd better not."

He fed the rope through and stood ready. "We could always try a Plan B or C," he offered.

She shook her head, mentally committed now. "I guess no matter what the outcome, it'll be one hell of a ride."

He nodded. "That it will be." He held his arms open. "All aboard?"

She eyed him dubiously, hesitating for more reasons than she wanted to admit. "Are you sure your phone isn't going to go off again?"

He laughed, unable to stop himself for several seconds. Then he reached into his pocket and turned of the phone. "I'll turn it on again when we're down."

"Beautiful."

"When you hop up I need your knees above the harness. I'll be going off backwards and if you're below the harness it will rub against you. Also, as soon as we get lateral we will need to adjust our weight. If we're too top-heavy, we'll flip upside down."

"Very encouraging," she said, swallowing the fear in her voice. Before she could think much more, she hopped up into his arms, her legs wrapping around his waist. He looked at her for a moment, longer than she would have liked, then dropped a whisper of a kiss on her lips.

"For luck," he said, which sounded much better than 'In case we don't get out of this alive and I don't have the chance to do it again.'

Either way, before she could respond, she felt him lean back, and when she opened her eyes Sara was looking down five stories to a bed of asphalt.

Being a woman of science, Sara didn't believe in miracles. She believed in natural laws and in cause and effect.

Still, the fact that she had yet to become asphalt paint was nothing short of a miracle in her book. She had never held on to anything more tightly than she was holding on to Michael.

"Sara, I need you to move yourself lower down my body if you could and hold me around my chest instead of around my neck. Switch one arm at a time."

"Okay," she breathed, moving her arms first, and then using the leverage of her grip to shimmy down lower. "That good?"

"Better," he decided, and she felt them start moving again.

She held tight, resting her cheek on his chest and refusing to look down. Part of realized how ridiculous they must look and how absolutely stupid they were being, but all that was an afterthought to the desire to feel something solid under her feet again.

Sara panicked when she heard Michael's breath catch. "What is it? Are you okay?"

"Fine," he said, his voice steady. "We're almost there."

Sara could have cried with joy, but kept her voice as even as his. "Okay."

Another five seconds, then another ten passed, and then she felt herself going vertical again.

"You can put you feet down now, Sara. We're on the balcony."

Sara could have kissed the ancient iron bars beneath her feet, but settle for gripping the railing. She was sweating and her breath was as labored as if she had sprinted a mile.

"The scary part's almost over," he had whispered into her ear.

Sara's eyes shot up to meet his. "Almost?"

"We've got to jump down from here, Sara. It's only ten feet and I'll go first so I can catch you."

Sara looked over the railing, thinking that the drop looked way more than ten feet, then looked over to Michael as he hopped over the side railing. For a moment he balanced himself against the side of the building, and when his hand moved to the railing Sara noticed a streak left behind where his hand had touched. She moved to take a closer look.

"Michael, is this blood?"

When he didn't answer, she stepped toward him.

"Are you bleeding?" She snatched his hand and pulled it to her. A rope-sized tear stood crimson in the center. Her eyes darted to the rope where she saw more blood. "Michael—"

"It's okay," he said with a smile. "I know this doctor. It'll be fine."

Sara opened her mouth to respond, but found she could only stare. Then he was gone, dropped out of sight with a light thud letting her know when he had hit the ground below.

Taking one last look at the streak of blood, Sara followed his example and climbed over the railing.

"Squat all the way down and hang from the base."

She did as she was told, completely beyond questioning him at this point. No sooner were her legs hanging in limbo when she felt his arms wrap around her knees.

"Just drop now. I've got you."

She didn't think—couldn't let herself. She did nothing more than let go. She didn't fall, rather she slid down the loop of his arms until her feet were inches off the ground and they were nose to nose.

How in the world had he pulled that off?

She fought against hugging him in relief. "You're a smooth man, Mr. Scofield."

The hand that wasn't bleeding came up and touched her face. "I told myself I wouldn't do this," he breathed.

Behind him Sara saw flashlights coming down the alley. "Later, Michael. We've got company."

The change in him was instantaneous and suddenly her feet were on the ground.

"This way," he hissed, and they were off again, running through the alley of a neighboring building then crashing to a halt when they hit the sidewalk.

"Act normal," he said. "We're just a couple taking a walk."

Sara nodded, feeling anything but normal. She was sweating like she had just stepped out of a sauna wearing a sweat suit. She nearly jumped when Michael's arm wrapped around her shoulder.

He looked sleek, she realized belatedly. He was wearing pressed slacks and a mock turtleneck top, both black. The haircut that had been so practical in prison now looked refined. They would have made a much more believable couple if she had still been in her dress and not glistening with sweat.

Still, she knew walking next to him awkwardly would make them conspicuous, so she reached her arm around him and casually hooked her thumb through his belt loop. They walked one block, then two and were starting on the third when a car pulled up next to them.

"Get in," a gruff voice called and Sara jumped away even as Michael stepped forward.

It was Lincoln who sat in the driver's seat, dressed in Levi's and a dark t-shirt. For some reason it was no shock to Sara's system to see Michael in normal clothes, but to see the former death row inmate uncuffed and out of the prison blues was surreal.

Michael opened the back door for her. "Your getaway car, madam."

Sara shot a hesitant look at the older brother. This was it. The point of no return.

And knowing that, Sara stepped into the car.

Sara didn't know where she expected them to go, but when they pulled up to a middle-class home fifteen miles out of Chicago Sara found it difficult to believe a group of fugitives had set up shot there. Weren't they supposed to be in an abandoned warehouse, or something?

Lincoln pulled into the garage, shutting the door right behind them.

"You're hiding out in a residential area?" she asked in shock.

Michael offered her a look that was the equivalent of a wink. "Hiding in plain sight is the last place people look."

He had a point there, all considering. She would never be looking for cons in a middle-class neighborhood if she were a cop.

"Come on in," he said once the garage door was fully closed. "I'll show you to your room."

Her room? How civilized. She hadn't gotten around to imagining much when it came to being on the run with Michael, but none of her imaginings had even come close to the set up she was walking into. She had her own room? What was next? Room service? She stepped out of the car.

"Veronica packed a bag for you. I'm sorry, but we won't be able to get back into your place unseen for quite some time, so if you need more than what she brought we'll have to buy it new."

'As long as she packed a bra,' was all Sara could think as she walked around the car and into the house. As she stepped over the threshold and caught a view of the living room down the hall, she found it strangely reassuring to see the house was rather sparsely decorated. She wasn't sure she could have handled it if the house looked totally normal.

There were two mismatched couches in the living room and a microwave appeared to be the only appliance in the kitchen. Except for a computer set up at a desk in the corner of the living room, the whole place looked rather barren. Michael seemed to read her mind.

"We haven't really gotten around to furnishing the place."

"Yeah," she laughed. "I'll bet."

"Your room's back here." He led her further down the hall and opened the first door on their right. Inside was a queen-sized bed made up with what smelled like new sheets. One of her carry-on bags sat in the middle of the bed, ready for her inspection.

"I'll let you get situated," Michael said and stepped away.

Sara didn't mean to, didn't even think about it, so when she reached out and lightly grabbed the hand he hand bandaged in the car, they were both slightly surprised.

They stood like that for a moment, neither speaking. A nervous lump had formed in Sara's throat and she tried to swallow it away. It didn't work.

"I should take a look at that hand."

His eyes met hers, looking into her in the way only his eyes could. "Later. Get situated and come out when you're ready."

He was pulling away and the realization had her panicking. "Don't go."

His grip tightened slightly on hers as he stepped in, his other hand coming to cup her face. "Sara, you don't know how it feels to have you looking at me like you are, but it's not fair for either of us for me to let you decide what you think about me only knowing what you know now." His fingertips caressed her jaw as he pulled it away. "You deserve to know what's brought you here before you decide that I've saved you, so unpack and then we'll talk."

Sara could only stare, her mind and her heart sending her opposing signals.

"Once upon a time you had questions. Do you still?" he asked.

Sara nodded.

"Then we should talk." He stepped away, releasing her hand. "I'll be in the living room."

With that he was gone, shutting the door behind him, and until that moment—until the instant the door clicked shut—Sara would have said she was fine. But alone in the room with a bed and a carry-on bag of possessions she hadn't packed, Sara felt her hands start to shake. Her body, having stayed composed through the night's stress took that simple click that implied privacy and translated it into a cue that she was now allowed to fall apart.

And she did. The shakes traveled up her arms and down her legs, until her whole body was shivering. Her mind started seeing things in snapshots, not focusing on anything for more than a few seconds. She thought of her father, of Mark, of the cars parked in front of her house, of work, of Katie, of all the people who had died in the past month. She thought of Michael, of his wife, then looked at her watch. No, it was 1:30 in the morning and his divorce had been final by default at midnight. His ex-wife.

She thought of her mother; she thought of the drugs she would prescribe someone in her condition; she thought how she should really get some water in her system.

And then, as her head found a pillow and her body found the bed, she thought nothing at all as her body all but passed out.

When Sara awoke the sun was streaming through the window. There was no moment of disorientation. She knew exactly where she was as she sat up.

Her head pounded as she eyed her still untouched bag. A shower and a change of clothes sounded like heaven, but there was business to attend to first.

Sara raked her hands through her hair, noting that there was no mirror in her room, and padded out to the hall. The house was silent and there was no one in sight. Not caring for the moment, Sara spotted the bathroom and walked into it.

Her mascara had lost its integrity and bled out so she looked like a raccoon. Nice. And since soap was one of the few accessories the bathroom actually had, Sara used it to scrub her face clean. Not very exotic, but how much could you expect from a girl involuntarily on the lam? She was wiping her face on a towel when a figure appeared in the door. It was female.

"Hello, Sara," the brunette said, and it took a second for Sara to recall her name.

"Veronica, right?"

"Yeah." She jerked her head toward the living room. "They guys are gone. Won't be back for a while."

"Where did they go?"

Veronica bit her lip. "C'mon, we've got to talk."

No longer concerned about her appearance, Sara followed Veronica into the living room where she sat on one of the couches. Sara sat on the other one.

Veronica sighed, looking nervous for the first time. "So, pretty crazy, huh?"

Sara nodded. "Yeah, to say the least."

Veronica hesitated, biting her lip. "Michael wanted me to talk to you."

That brought Sara to full alert. Then she grew skeptical. "Why you?"

"I don't know." Her hands started fidgeting. "Maybe he thought it would be easier to hear from me. Or maybe he thought that he wouldn't have the guts to tell you everything that needed to be told. I don't know."

"Right," Sara huffed.

Veronica's eyes searched hers. "Or maybe he just wanted you to believe it, and didn't think you would if it came from him."

Now that had a ring of truth. Sara considered that.

Veronica took a deep breath. "You've got to know before I go into this, though, that I've known Michael all his life. He's a good man, Sara. He's always been the good brother who did everything right—who did things for other people even when it hurt him. I'm not saying he's perfect. He's had more than his share of prickish moments, and as you'll come to find out, the way he decided to save his brother has ruined quite a few lives."

"I think I have an idea about that," Sara said.

"If not, then you're definitely going to have one by the time we're done talking." Veronica paused, and looked down at her hands. "He really is a good man…"

"You already said that."

"Yeah," she breathed. "I guess I'm just stalling."

Now Sara was nervous. "It can't be that bad."

Veronica took a deep breath, as if bracing herself. "I guess that's for you to decide. Okay, let's rewind to the beginning."

"Okay."

"Michael and Lincoln basically raised each other. Lincoln watched after Michael—made sure he had everything. Most of the time he did this without Michael knowing and this distanced them to the point that they rarely did more than keep up with each other." Veronica cleared her throat. "The night Lincoln was framed, Michael was with me."

Sara fought to keep herself passive. "With you?"

"Yeah, we hadn't seen each other and we were both hurting. I've loved Lincoln since before I knew what love was. We had been broken up for years and our parting wasn't the best and then I ran into Michael at a bar and…" She cleared her throat.

"Went home with him," Sara finished.

"Yeah," Veronica breathed.

Sara felt ill, or angry, or something that made her feel hollow and stupid at the same time. She saw now why Michael hadn't been able to talk to her in person, when his girlfriend could smooth things over for him.

"So you two—"

"Lincoln called," Veronica interrupted. "We were both so drunk and feeling so betrayed that we were to ready hurt Lincoln the way he had hurt us in the most unforgivable way possible. And in the very moment we were about to do it, he called."

Sara knew she should say something, but she didn't know what.

"He was the one who pulled away," she confessed. "I'm ashamed of that now, but it's the truth. I still want to hurt Lincoln for not being the man I always wanted him to be—for letting me go. God, nothing hurts worse than that, I think. Forcing yourself to walk away from someone you love and not having them give you a single reason to turn back. Not even having them try to get you back!"

Sara felt her heart break a little. She knew exactly how Veronica felt. She'd spent her whole life trying to get the most important man in her life to notice her. He never had, not even when she was steps from death's door.

"Anyway," Veronica said pulling herself back to the present. "It's easiest to say it all started there. It started long before that, of course, but that's the easiest place to point at. Michael never forgave himself for not picking up that call, because if he had Lincoln would have never made it to the crime scene that night."

Sara digested that.

"I was the one who filled him on other aspects of how his brother wasn't such a bad guy, but as soon as Michael realized that his brother was going down for a crime he didn't commit he became a man possessed. I'm not kidding, Sara. His brother had always looked out for him and Michael decided it was time to return the favor, and that meant that everything that didn't involve his brother was shoved out of his life, and anything connected to his brother became an obsession."

Sara recalled the meeting with Michael's psychologist, where he had described the same attribute. Now of this was hard to believe yet, and Sara couldn't imagine why Michael couldn't be telling all this to him herself.

"He spent hours trying to memorize blueprints, and twice as long learning everything he could about the Fox River staff." Veronica paused here. "That includes you, Sara."

Sara sensed this wasn't leading to a good place. "What do you mean?"

Veronica gave a reluctant sigh. "That means before he actually met you, Michael knew quite a bit about you. He knew where you went to school, your GPA, he had dozens of newspaper clippings about you, got copies of your yearbooks. He studied you until he was pretty sure he knew how he could work you into his plan."

"My senior quote," Sara said, recalling their first meeting. "He knew it?"

Veronica nodded. "That's what I'm trying to tell you, Sara. If it was public information or even semi-private, Michael dug it up and memorized as part of his arsenal."

Sara felt sick… more than that, she felt humiliated. It hadn't even been hard for him, she realized. She had been desperate and waiting for exactly the kind of man he portrayed himself to be.

"He did this with everyone. He had to know the variables before he committed himself to his plan. He had to get his brother out and clear him. That was his only goal."

"And you helped him?"

"No," Veronica said. "I had no idea until he pulled that trigger in the bank. And then he made the idiot move of asking me to represent him, which was actually brilliant on his part, since he wanted to be convicted."

"Of course," Sara agreed.

"But once he got in, very little went according to plan, and you saw more of that than I did."

Sara's eyes shot up.

"In the infirmary," Veronica finished. "His first plan was to erode the drainage pipes with acid every day while he was in there and escape that way."

Sara's jaw dropped.

"You didn't know that?" Veronica asked, surprised. "I thought you at least knew that much."

"No, I just thought…" Sara bit her lip. "Why would he have to be so nice to me if he didn't plan on using me to get out?"

"Your father," Veronica provided mercenarily. "You were his Plan B if he failed, which he sort of did. When the judge granted the two-week stay, Michael went back to the drawing boards, but I'm skipping a lot here, Sara. A lot of people died while all this was going on, and it can all be traced back to events Michael set into motion."

"You can't blame him—"

"The riot," Veronica cut in. "The one where he saved you?"

Sara remembered it vividly. "Yes?"

"Michael staged that."

Sara was immediately incredulous. "What? That's impossible. He would have been in cell—"

"Michael was rarely in his cell when he was supposed to be in Fox River. He spent a good amount of time in the walls and pipes, and on that day he was the one that shorted out the air conditioning, because he needed cover for what he was doing to break Lincoln out. Do you know how many people died in the jail that day, Sara?"

"Nine," Sara said without having to stop to think. "Nine died and twenty-three required medical care for injuries."

"That's the beginning of our path, Sara. This is the story Michael wants you to hear before you start thanking him for anything—the story about how a man who has spent his life trying to help people hurt more people than he helped by saving his own brother. It goes a lot deeper than anything you may feel he's done to you, and it may take a while for me to tell it."

Sara felt as if a tennis ball were lodged in her throat, but somehow managed to speak anyway. "Okay."

Veronica took another deep breath. "All right, then let's rewind even further back than that…"

For the next forty-five minutes Veronica spoke and Sara listened. And when Veronica was done there was only thing Sara could think to say.

"I think I'll go back to my room now."

Veronica nodded, her face grave. "You take your time. I didn't tell you this earlier, but Michael and Lincoln won't be back until tomorrow. That should give you some time, at least."

"Yeah," was all Sara could say as she stood and walked like a zombie down the hall.

He was avoiding her. Sara could understand why, and somehow it made it easier for her to do what she had decided to do.

She found Michael on the back porch, looking up at the night sky without any porch lights. He was nothing more than a silhouette against the night sky as she took her place next to him.

"I thought I should come out here and offer my congratulations," she said lightly.

He was hesitant to look at her. "For what?"

"For being even more of a tortured soul than I am," she said, a rueful smile on her lips. "I didn't think such a person existed."

He paused for a moment, as if not believing what he heard, then let out a little laugh. "That's not what I was expecting you to say."

"Well, I do my best not to be too predictable."

He laughed again, but his eyes were wary. "You're being too nice."

She nodded, kicking at the ground. "Nicer than I would have been yesterday, at least. That was smart of you, giving yourself some buffer time to let me process what Veronica had to say."

There was a pause.

"Did she tell you everything?"

A humorless laugh escaped her. "You'd better hope so."

He took a deep breath. "So now what?"

Sara's mouth smirked in the darkness. "Nuh-uh. Your move. I just made one by coming out here and playing nice."

He turned to face her, his features barely outlined in the moonlight. "Why? Why are you being nice? Why are you making this easy?"

"Maybe because I decided sometime last night that we both had had more hard times than we needed, and maybe it was time something was easy for once."

He looked at her speechless.

"I'm no saint either, Michael. My day job may involve saving lives, but that doesn't mean I've led an admirable life myself. We all make mistakes, Michael."

"Of course, but your mistakes haven't left people dead, Sara!"

She looked him dead in the eye. "Are you sure about that, Michael? It may be easier for you to believe that, but do you really know that?"

"It's different with you," he seethed. "People come to you damaged. If you can't save them then it's not your fault if they die."

"That's when I'm at work," she shot back. "You want stories, Michael? I can tell you stories. Far too many stories, and then I'll ask you what kind of a person you think I am and whether or not you think someone like me should be trusted with another person's life."

He turned away from her, distancing them. "Why are you saying this?"

"So you'll know you're not alone, Michael!" She stepped forward, touching his arm. "That's the conclusion I came to last night. Sure, I can be pissed at you spend my days trying to make you pay some sort of penance until I feel better about how you played me, but I'm not one for games, Michael. I never have been. I put my cards on the table, and that's what I'm doing right now."

"Sara…" he couldn't finish the sentence.

"If there's one thing I've learned from you, it's that there's no guarantee I may see you from one day to the next. For all I know you'll be dead tomorrow playing this game you're playing, and then I will have never had the chance to do this."

Before he could move—before he could even draw a breath—Sara moved and did what she had pictured for far too long: kissed Michael Scofield in complete privacy, with no watching eyes, and with his complete cooperation.

He came up for air. "Sara… I don't know what to say."

She smiled. "A smart man like you should know this isn't exactly a time for talking."

She kissed him again, nearly sighing when his arms hesitantly reached out for her.

He pulled away and reached up to stroke her hair. "I don't deserve you," he whispered.

"Damn straight," she agreed. "And yet, by some miracle you've got me."

This time, it was he who leaned in, kissing her like he feared she might change her mind any moment. There was no a chance of that, Sara knew, as she reached and pulled him against her.

If only one good thing was going to come from everything that had happened these past few months, this would be it.

'_God, so this was what they write songs about,'_ Sara thought, fighting the urge to push a strand of hair from her face as she lay stretched across her bed. Moving might break the spell—put a crack in this glorious bliss and send her plummeting back to reality.

All that would come soon enough. For now she just wanted to bask in the afterglow as she celebrated in the fact that she single-handedly melted the man next to her into an immobile puddle.

At least she knew for sure that wasn't faked.

She heard Michael exhale and sensed him looking at her. Not sure if it was wise, not even sure she was ready for it, she turned tilted her head and returned his gaze—completely unprepared for the defenseless look in his eyes. Her heart crashed from her chest and through her stomach in a heart beat.

God, she was in love with this man. As messed up and as wrong as it was, it was the truth and it was time she owned up to it. And even if it meant that he only made her feel like this once in his life, then it was worth it. God, it was worth it.

And why couldn't she stop saying "God"? It wasn't her style to blaspheme, but damn if that wasn't exactly how she felt—like she was God, or he was, or maybe they both were when they were together. It didn't matter. It was heaven and suddenly Sara's heart ached to touch him again. She reached out, Michael apparently mirroring her thoughts as their hands met and entwined.

Silently, his eyes holding hers with their softness, Michael raised her hand to his mouth and pressed his lips to it

'_He's never enough,' _Sara thought, the words coming to her like they were from her own heart._ 'But still he's more than I can take.'_

That was the song. Those were the lyrics that someone had written just for this moment. And Sara couldn't have explained it any better if she tried.

Five days and as many nights. That's how long she had spent within the walls of Michael's hideout. He and Lincoln were nearly always gone, and frequently they took Veronica with them. That left Sara by herself, giving her plenty of time to think.

Sometime well after dark, they would all come home and be conspicuously silent. Lincoln and Veronica would head to the kitchen and eat, but Michael would head straight to her. Just like he had that night. And once he connected with her, he never wanted to seem to let go.

Sara couldn't explain how good that felt, even as her mind knew that this wasn't a situation that could last. That was one of many things she had figured out during her lonely hours in the house.

Wide awake and wanting a drink, Sara lifted up Michael's arm and slid out from underneath it. Thirsty or not, beginning to distance herself from Michael in the night was a good thing anyway. She shouldn't be getting used to his heat, his breathing, his smell, and the simple weight of him lying next to her.

She slipped on one of his shirts, telling herself that it was a one-time indulgence as she moved out of the room without making a sound. Pulling the door shut behind her, Sara heard voices coming from the adjacent room. They were soft, but not intimate. It sounded as if Veronica and Lincoln were arguing.

Having kept her nose out of everything for the past few days, Sara's curiosity got the better of her and she approached their door.

"Linc, it was risk for us to come back in the first place. Every day we stay we're cutting it even closer."

Lincoln's soft voice was gentle. "If Michael says we're okay, we're okay.

"Michael's in love. A man's judgment isn't exactly at its best when it's hampered like that."

Lincoln laughed. "As opposed to a woman, who has flawless judgment at all times, right?"

"I didn't say that. Look where I am."

There was a long pause. "I know, Veronica. You have no idea how sorry I am to have dragged you into all of this."

"Hey," Veronica soothed. "You don't see me complaining, do you? Given the choice to live with or without you, I choose you, okay? That was my choice."

Silence. "I love you, V."

There was the sound of lips connecting. "I love you, too, but we've got to talk some sense into your brother. He refuses to do anything that might hurt Sara, and that's hurting us."

"It may be taking more work, but we're making progress from here."

"Not enough," she said firmly. "And you know it."

Sara didn't need to hear any more. She stepped away from the door and went on her original errand, staring out the kitchen window as she downed a glass of water. It was only a matter of time now, and five days of uninterrupted thinking had given her an idea as to how she wanted to deal with the inevitable.

Sara was careful not to make a sound when she slipped back into her room, but Michael heard nonetheless.

"Where did you go?" he muttered from the bed.

She slid in next to him. "I needed a drink."

"Hmm," he grunted, and then pulled her against him. "Missed you."

He was half asleep and on the way to checking out entirely. Part of Sara just wanted to watch him slip into sleep while the other knew there was no better time for them to speak than the present.

"Michael?"

His arms tightened momentarily around her in reflex. "Hmm?"

"Michael, we've got to talk."

"Mm-hmm."

He needed to open his eyes, and to get him to do so Sara reached over and started to lightly trace the outline of one of his tattoos.

"I've been wondering something," she said. "When you found me during the riot in sick bay, which of your little tattoos showed you the way?"

His mouth quirked up into a smile, even as his eyes stayed shut. He picked up her left hand and led it to his side. "My cell was right here." He reached out and found her right hand, laying it over his heart. "And you were right here. All I had to do was connect the dots."

Sara laughed, amused at his charm even when he was half asleep. "That's cute, Michael. All you had to do was follow your heart? Now how about the real story."

"That's it," he mumbled, his heart beating methodically beneath her hand. "The infirmary is the alcove you see in the tattoo when you look up and to the right a bit. Sick bay faces the infirmary from the next wing." He laid his hand over hers. "Right here."

For a second Sara couldn't breathe, overwhelmed for some silly reason over the coincidental placement of his tattoo. Even as she felt Michael's steady pulse against her hand, she felt her own pick up. They still needed to talk, but since Michael was still too asleep for the discussion they needed to have. And since Sara was overwhelmed with the desire to kiss him anyway, she decided to kill two birds with one stone.

Keeping her right hand where it was, she moved her left up to his face and kissed him. It was only a couple of seconds before she has his full attention, and just when his arms reached for her, she pulled away.

His eyes settled on hers, lazy and focused at the same time. "Where are you going? Come back here."

She didn't. "Michael, we've got to talk."

His eyes grew wary. "Okay."

She cleared her throat. "There's only one reason you came back to Chicago, isn't there?"

His eyes held hers for a moment then dropped away.

"I know you've been out of the state. That car you were driving that first night you picked me up had Utah plates. You've changed cars since and I'm not going to ask, and I don't want you to tell. We both know it's better that way, but there is one question I need to know the answer to: am I the only reason you came back here?"

"Sara…" he began, but couldn't finish.

She reached out and covered his hand with hers. "It's okay and I can't tell you what that means to me. But more than that, you might have saved my life and for that I thank you."

He made no reply.

"I know you're the resident genius around here, but I've had quite a bit of time to think these past couple of days, and there's an idea I want to run by you."

He sat up, giving her his full attention. "Okay."

Then he listened, occasionally inserting a question, but mostly just listening.

"I don't like it," he said when she finished.

"I wasn't asking you if you liked it," Sara reminded him gently. "I'm asking if you think it would help."

"Sara, there are too many variables. Too many opportunities for something to go wrong."

She tipped his chin up so he would be forced to look at her. "It all comes down to how much you trust me, Michael… and how much I trust you. When push comes to shove, that is what all this will ride on."

His eyes, usually hard as steel, were soft. "Sara, I can't ask you—"

"You're not asking," Sara interrupted with a whisper. "I'm offering. The question is, are you taking?"

He looked at her for the longest time, his eyes racing through every emotion before he pulled her to him. She went this time, blinking back tears as she did so.

Sara was sick of falling. She had only made it fifty feet and fallen twice in the process, since her feet were tightly duct taped together. Her hands were bound in a similar fashion behind her back, which meant that when she actually did fall, nothing kept her body from slamming into the ground without anything to buffer the impact.

She would have called out, but her mouth was duct taped as well. Sara eyed the gas station that was now less than a hundred feet away and let out a muffled groan only she could hear as she set about getting herself back up on her feet. It would have been so much easier if her hands were bound in front of her.

The graceless maneuvering took longer than she would ever want to admit, but at long last she was back on her feet, bouncing her way to the gas station like a hog-tied rabbit.

As she drew closer, she played it wasn't abandoned. She could spot one car in its parking lot or at the pumps, and damned if she was going to risk hopping there for nothing. It was seventy feet of pure asphalt and Sara wasn't in the mood for road rash if she ended up taking another tumble.

It was either that or waiting by an abandoned roadside for the next car to drive by.

Sara considered her options, and then hopped. God, it was exhausting, especially since she couldn't breathe through her mouth. The only air that came in and out of her body had to use her nose to do so, and with twenty feet left to the gas station, Sara started to feel a little dizzy. Still, she didn't want to take a break.

She was a sight when she fell through the door, straining for air, sweating like she had just run ten miles—all topped off by the fact that her body hit the welcome mat with a dull thud as she tumbled shoulder first into it. When she looked up at the cash register, a clerk was staring at her wide-eyed, his mouth half way to taking a bite out of a donut.

"Help!" she screamed against the duct tape, but the sound that came out was nothing more than a muffled, 'MMMP!'

The clerk dropped his donut and raced to her side.

"Whoa, lady, are you okay?"

Sara fought the urge to level a pointed look at the man and started jutting her chin towards him.

"You trying to say something?" he asked.

"Yes!" she muffled, jetting her chin out again.

"I can't understand you with this tape on. Mind if I take it off?"

Sara nodded, glad he had finally caught on. He gripped a corner of the tape and gave her an apologetic look.

"Sorry if this hurts," he said, and pulled.

The rip of the tape being torn from her face, and taking countless tiny little hairs with it was enough to have Sara biting back a scream. She couldn't stop the tears that came to her eyes, though.

"Call the police," she said without hesitation.

"I recognize you," the clerk said, not hearing her for the moment. "You're the governor's daughter. You've been all over the news. You were abducted."

"That's right," Sara said calmly. "And whatever reward there is for me is yours if you'll just call the police right now."

The clerk needed no other incentive. He was up and sprinting for the phone before Sara could take another breath, leaving her lying on his dirty welcome mat.

The precinct was humming with action, and Sara probably wouldn't have been so aware of it if it didn't all seem to be rotating around her. Everyone seemed to be on the phone and reporters were filling the sidewalk waiting for a press conference.

Everyone was happy to see her back safe and sound. Or at least they were for the moment, with the notable exception of the head detective, Detective Reins. He had a curious look in his eye whenever he looked her way.

Her hands and feet had long since been cut free and she sat in a chair facing the detective's desk. Alone. Her father had been called, but after an hour he had yet to make it to the precinct.

There were the sounds of shouts when the front door opened, and at long last her father entered, his entourage in his wake.

"Where's my daughter?" he barked with the authority of his office and was promptly led to her. Sara met him half way, throwing herself into his arms.

"Dad!"

He held her, rocking her slightly as he pressed a kiss to her temple. "Sara… God, Sara, where have you been?"

The tears that came to her eyes were faked as she held on. "Dad, I want to go home."

"I know, Sara. Let me talk to the officer—"

"With you," she pled and leaned in so only he could hear her. "You don't understand, my house was being watched before I was taken. Men sat outside my house and watched everything I did. I can't go home. No yet. Not until its safe."

His eyes held honest distress as he looked into her eyes, but there was a hardness there too. "You live with me, and you don't work at that prison, you understand me? That's what got you into all this to begin with!"

Sara nodded. "I'll put in a leave of absence, I swear! I just want to go home."

He opened his mouth to argue, but decided against it. "Let me talk to Carter."

He turned away, planning to do just that, when Detective Reins stopped him.

"Governor, my name is Detective Reins. I've been assigned to your daughter's case."

Her father stood nose to nose with the man. "Then you can see that she needs medical attention and a good night's rest. I'm taking her with me right now."

Detective Reins didn't blink. "I'm afraid that's not possible, sir. We're going to have to question your daughter. We'd like to administer a lie-detector test with her consent."

"Lie detector?" her father fumed. "For what reason? My daughter was abducted! She is not a criminal!"

"With all due respect, Mr. Governor, that has yet to be determined. Suspicious circumstances surround your daughter. The mere fact that she escaped while duct taped is suspect, but I'm sure a lie-detector test will help clear all that up."

Her father looked furious. "Well, you're just one arrogant as—"

"Dad," Sara interrupted, stepping forward and touching his arm. "It's okay. Whatever I have to do to get out of here, I'll do it. I don't care."

Detective Reins eyes leveled on hers. "Would you voluntarily submit to a lie-detector test, Miss Tancredi?"

"If you think it would help," she said, her eyes not wavering from his.

"This is outrageous!" her father snapped. "And the press is going to hear about this. They're all out there just waiting for a story, and you just gave it to them!"

"Just doing my job," Detective Reins said evenly.

Clearly unhappy, Sara watched her father check his watch. "How long is 'your job' going to take then?"

"An hour. Maybe two."

Her father swore under his breath and turned back to face her, his hands resting on her shoulders in a fatherly motion. "Sara, I can't stay here and wait for you that long. I have meetings, but the second you're done, you give me a call, you understand? I'll come back the minute you call!"

Sara nodded, smiling for the first time since the duct tape had been torn from her mouth.

"Okay, Dad," she replied, and watched him leave with the same fanfare he had entered with. But she couldn't help but notice that this time he stopped to talk to the press.

The man administering Sara's lie-detector test sat across from her and did not make eye contact. All he did was watch a screen as he asked her redundant questions.

"Do you know a man named Michael Scofield?"

"Yes."

"Do you know the current whereabouts for Michael Scofield?"

"No."

It seemed he had been asking her the same questions in different forms for more than an hour.

"Is he still in the state of Chicago?"

Sara took a deep breath. "Could be."

"I need a yes or a no, Miss Tancredi."

"I don't know, so I can't answer either way."

There was a long silence. "Did you have contact with anyone besides Michael Scofield during the time of your abduction?"

"Yes."

"Slowly, please tell me the name of every person you encountered in the past six days."

Sara did, and then the tester used the three names she gave him to ask her nine more questions. Then there were a dozen other questions along other lines. Sara listened to each question and answered accordingly.

"Do your co-workers sometimes call you by your first name?"

This was an irrelevant question, one of those used to gauge the truthfulness of upcoming questions. Sara took a moment to draw an image to mind then answered, "Yes."

There were a few other irrelevant questions before the tester turned back to the control questions—the one's that were designed to create dishonest responses from the person answering.

"Have you ever stolen anything from your place of work?"

"Yes."

"Have you ever committed a felony?"

"Yes."

"Did you do so on purpose?"

"Yes."

These questions went on as well, and Sara fought a smile as she noticed the man repeatedly itching his nose. He was getting nervous. When he returned to relevant questions Sara saw sweat forming at his hair line.

"Describe to me this morning's events."

Sara did, and he turned them into questions for her to answer, until twenty minutes later he decided he was done. An officer came to the interrogation room to lead her back to Detective Reins desk.

She sent the young man a weary look. "Excuse me, but could you call my father and tell him I'm ready for him to come back for me, officer?"

His body language all but saluted her. "Yes, Miss Tancredi."

Sara smiled at his intensity. The man took his job seriously. "Thank you, Officer…" she looked at his tag, "Barton."

Officer Barton took her to Detective Reins' empty desk to await her test results before dutifully racing for a phone. Sara didn't have to wait long for Detective Reins. He approached her from the direction she had come, his face rigid as stone as he looked over a sheet of paper. He didn't even offer her a glance as he took his place on the other side of his desk.

"So, the governor's daughter has knowingly committed a felony, hmm?"

Sara sent him a smile. "Like you haven't, detective?"

His eyes shot to hers, not an ounce of humor in them. "You're very glib for a person that just escaped a life or death situation, Miss Tancredi."

Sara let the humor melt out her eyes. "It's been a long day for me, Detective Reins, and however I choose to deal with the insanity isn't really something I'm in the mood for you to critique right now."

She watched the muscle in his jaw flex. "Of course, Miss Tancredi. I'd like to personally thank you for your cooperation today. Would you like to know the results of your test?"

Sara shrugged. "Not particularly."

His eyebrows shot up. "Really? Most people are interested in that."

"I know what they should be," Sara said through a little yawn. "If your guy says they're anything else, then that's your problem."

His face was hard, doubtful. "Interesting perspective, Miss Tancredi."

Sara knew he was trying to provoke her. He didn't trust her for one reason or another, but Sara wasn't going to let him use intimidation tactics on her. Her eyes hard as steel she looked right back at him.

"Now who's the one being glib, detective?"

He offered her his first smile. "You're free to go as soon as your dad gets here."

He then dropped the papers he had been examining face up on his desk and started away. He made it only a few steps before turning on his heel and looking back at her.

"By the way, I have to admire your candidness during your interview, Miss Tancredi. There's not a chance you'd tell me what the felony is that you confessed to committing?"

A corner of Sara's mouth curved up as she let the truth put a mischievous twinkle in her guarded eyes.

"This, Detective Reins, is the part where I don't answer you."

Sara had never been good at waiting, although it seemed her life had largely been filled with doing exactly that. That's what she had been doing ever since she returned to her father's house, and while she was doing so, she couldn't help but practice a few of her "retired" skills.

The place was a house of memories for Sara, and not good ones. There was a reason Sara never came home. Everything her father proudly displayed on his oak shelves and antique frames only reminded her that she had never measured up… never been prized as one of her father's accomplishments.

Right next to shelves displaying priceless valuables were others that remained conspicuously vacant, a constant reminder of what Sara had taken from her father once upon a time and how irreplaceable it had been to him. A trinket here, a collectable coin there… little things missing from his shelves and leaving a yawning gap to remind him he had a daughter.

Because heaven knew there wasn't any other evidence of that around the house.

Even Sara's personal room was now a guest room, but she had recognized the desk of her childhood. The rolltop she had done her homework on as a child. He grandpa had made it for her, and it was when she lost the key to it as a teen that she first learned to pick a lock. She had perfected the skill later when she had discovered the joy of chemicals and that the things her father locked away could help her pay for them. Alcohol had been her first introduction to altered states of consciousness, and it hadn't been long before she was introduced to the joy of opiates by friends at her private school.

Sara blinked back the memory and swore under her breath, re-angling the file as she tried the tumblers again. No luck.

How long had it been since had picked a lock? Less that two years? Damn if it wasn't harder than she remembered. One would think the task would be easier when one had steady hands to work with, but maybe without the motivation of knowing a fabulous high followed success the whole process seemed less compelling.

All it was was a simple desk lock—her own desk even—and she had been unable to bypass the tumblers for nearly ten minutes. Some spy she was.

She was ready to toss in the towel when her bedroom door opened and one of her dad's bodyguards walked in.

"Mail," he said, holding a stack of it in his hand. Sara's eyes fell on a package amongst the envelopes.

"Thank you, Jerald. Just put it on my bed."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, following her instructions and then exiting as abruptly as he had entered.

Sara eyed the package, her heart rate picking up slightly. Was this is it? Was the wait over? Standing from the desk, Sara moved to her bed and picked up her already opened mail. Her father had insisted on that. For all he said he trusted her, he wasn't even letting junk mail get through to her without someone reading it first.

Sara picked up the medium-sized box and noted that it was addressed to her apartment and had been forwarded to her father's address. The return address was a Mary Kay label. Sara smiled.

Pulling it open she found a blue bottle that was labeled Mary Kay 'Harmony', and a small origami flower with a note attached to it that said, "Thank you for your recent order! Harmony is great for giving a pleasant scent to everything from your neck to your stationery. Send more than your words in a letter, send Harmony as well! As always, our products are 100 guaranteed, so please call me if you not 100 satisfied!"

Sara took the lid off the perfume and took a little sniff, her face grimacing in distaste. The perfume smelled like cabbage of all things. There was no way any of that was making it on to her!

She put the perfume to the side and started going through the other envelopes, which were nearly all junk with a few credit card statements thrown in just to remind her she was currently unemployed.

On the bottom was a large legal-sized envelope from Fox River. Or at least it claimed it was. Sara reached for it, not quite sure what to expect. Inside were about a dozen sheets of paper on what resembled Fox River's official stationery, but Sara had seen such letterhead too often to be fooled.

The first page was labeled, 'Verification of Absence of Leave' and the next twelve pages appeared to be nothing more than useless legal boilerplate, most of which had nothing to do with her absence of leave at all.

Sara read through it, unsure how to proceed until she came to the last page where the last paragraph ended by saying, "For further information, please see reverse."

She turned the page over and found it blank, just as the reverse of all the pages were blank. What the hell?

There was only thing Sara knew for sure and that was that both the documents and the cabbage perfume were from Michael. She looked at the note that had come with the perfume and re-read it, her eyes stopping when it spoke of scenting her stationery.

More curious than she was skeptical, Sara turned the last page over to its blank back, picked up the perfume and let out a little squirt. A puff over vapor squirted out and after resting on the paper for a few moments Sara watched the words FRONT DEN appear before her eyes on the paper.

Her lips curving up into a mischievous smile, Sara again raised the perfume bottle and began squirting away.

Her father actually had cameras in the house. Two in his office, one in the den, one over the front entry and several covering the grounds—all moderated from a secure view location in the basement that used to serve as her family's TV room.

This was just one of the things she had learned from the blueprints Michael had sent to her. Each page had been a room of the house, detailing everything from crawl space to built-in safes. How Michael had gotten the information Sara had no idea, but at least she knew now what rooms not to go poking around in.

But poking around was far from her mind now that she had a request for an interview sitting in her hands from the Washington Hospital Center.

Sara picked up her phone and dialed her father.

"Yes, Sara," his voice clipped out as he picked up. "What can I do for you?"

Sara took a steadying breath. "I just have to know, Dad. Did you use your political influence to get me this interview?"

He hesitated. "What interview?"

"For the hospital in D.C."

There was a moment of shocked silence. "I don't know a thing about it, Sara."

Sara looked at the paper again. "Well, I have a letter requesting an interview with me next Thursday and the last time I applied with this hospital was while I was doing my residency. That was quite a while ago."

"They must have kept you on file then," he said, his smile audible. "Do you need my office to book the flight for you?"

Sara bit her lip, not that he could see. "I wasn't sure if you would want me to go, all things considered."

"Go? Of course you're going! Suzanne will make all the travel arrangements for you. Call her and she'll get everything squared away."

"Okay, Dad."

His tone changed. "And Sara?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't blow it."

He hung up then. No pleasantries, which was something she had never quite grown accustomed to, but Sara still smiled as she dialed the next number.

"Governor's office," a pleasant voice cooed in her ear.

"Suzanne, this is Sara… the governor's daughter."

"Yes, of course, Sara," the whispery voice breathed. "What can I do for you?"

"My dad wants you to arrange round trip tickets for me to D.C. I have a job interview there on Thursday."

"How exciting for you," Suzanne purred. "Let me get some details from you. Window or aisle?"

"Am I going first class?"

"Of course," Suzanne replied maternally

"Window then, but aisle if I'm in coach."

"Very good. And number of tickets?"

"Just me," Sara said. "I'm only going to be there for a couple of hours. No need for security, especially since no one knows I'm going."

"Very good. What time is your interview?"

"Ten in the morning?"

"Ten?" Suzanne objected. "You would have to be on a 6:00 am flight to make that. You should just fly in Wednesday and stay the night."

Sara breathed a sigh of relief, mentally kissing her father's assistant. "You think?"

"Oh, I insist, my dear. We get a fabulous rate at the Willard. I'll book you a room. How would you like them to prepare it?"

"For me?" Sara laughed. "There's no need."

"You're the governor's daughter. They'll insist. Be specific now, dear."

"Um, okay. Tell them to have four bottles of water on ice, then."

"Four on ice? Very good. What else?"

"Fruit, I guess. I like fruit."

"What kind?" Suzanne pressed.

"Strawberries… if they have them."

"Oh, they'll get them. Anything else?"

Sara smiled to herself. "Satin sheets. Light blue if they have them. If not, then black. It's what I use at home." That was a bold-faced lie, but there was no way for Suzanne to know that.

"That's the spirit, girl. So just to repeat, we're looking at one round-trip ticket to D.C. with a window seat in first class, accommodations at the Willard with four bottles of water in ice, strawberries and blue satin sheets on the bed. A limo service will be at your disposal for transportation and I will get the tickets in your hands by Monday, okay?"

"You're a miracle worker, Suzanne."

Sara could almost see the woman's smile in her mind. "Thank you, Sara. And good luck with your interview."

The woman sounded so happy, Sara almost felt bad saying thank you. When she hung up, though, all guilt faded as she laughed at her last request.

Satin sheets? What had gotten into her?

But there was no time to think about that. She had work to do before Thursday!

When Sara allowed herself to think about it, it was slightly disturbing to her how easily she fell into the role of being a spy… How calmly she had walked into her father's office and added a little piece of equipment to his keyboard cord to record all his computer's keystrokes. And then she had pretended to wait for Mark while he was in a meeting and done the same in his cubicle.

The fact that she knew such equipment existed was one thing. The fact that she had bought the equipment under her father's nose without breaking a sweat was another. But walking into her father's office for a feigned social visit and installing the equipment while she waited for her father to take her to lunch was what really let her know something about her was wired a little differently.

No guilt. Absolutely none. No adrenaline either—that had come yesterday when she had removed the devices and taken them home to her laptop and watched five days worth of typing and correspondence unveil itself on her screen.

It had worked, and even though most of what she read was benign, it still didn't change the fact that she was reading correspondence she should not be reading. It was all one-sided, so in some cases it was difficult to get context as to what was being discussed, but other times it was all too clear.

It also showed that if either Mark or her dad were doing anything below the radar, they weren't leaving footprints of it on governmentally-owned computers. Smart of them. Still, some of their "legal" correspondences could definitely make them the targets of reproach should they be made public.

Sara hadn't thought too much about that. She just printed the documents out, which had given her about fifty pages to dig through more thoroughly while she was on the airplane. She had also printed off an extra copy and placed in her carry on.

And now, as she sat in the limo that was taking her to her hotel, she felt the first pangs of nervousness, the first shades of doubt.

What was she doing? Really? And why? These were the questions that needed to be asked even as her heart begged her not to ask them. Michael had thrown away his future for his brother's life, and now it seemed like Sara was throwing away her own future just to help Michael.

What sane person did that? Wanting to help was one thing; hurting yourself in the process was quite another. And all for what?

Sara knew that was a question she couldn't ask. It would drive her crazy and there wasn't a person on the earth that could give her a guarantee of where all this was leading. All Sara knew was that deep down she wanted to be a part of it. A part of him.

Hating that her nerves were jumping as the limo pulled up to her hotel, Sara checked her watch. It was 7:00 pm, which meant she had two hours to burn. She would use it to have dinner, since she had skipped the airplane food and hadn't eaten since lunch.

The limo came to a stop and a few seconds her side door opened. She stepped out. The bellhop was already waiting for her luggage. The driver handed him her one small suitcase.

"Welcome to the Willard, Ms. Tancredi. Is this all your luggage this evening?"

Sara nodded and handed him her carry on. "Could you take it up to my room? I'd like to go straight to the restaurant."

"Very good, Ms. Tancredi. These will be waiting for you in your room. Enjoy your meal."

Sara nodded and headed to the front desk where she handed the clerk her ID.

"Just staying with us for one night, Ms. Tancredi?" she asked as her fingers flew efficiently over the keyboard, checking her in.

"Yes, I'll be checking out tomorrow morning."

"Well, everything should be to your liking. If not, please feel free to contact me. My name is Marcy," she said all this even as her fingers finished doing their work. She gathered up Sara's ID and tucked her room key into a brochure. "The Willard Room is to your left unless you would prefer the Terrace."

Sara nodded. "The Willard Room is fine, thank you, but would you mind giving me two keys? Somehow I always manage to lose these things."

"Of course," Marcy said, and moments later handed Sara a duplicate key. "Enjoy your stay, Ms. Tancredi."

A smile touched Sara's lips. "Thank you. I plan to."

She walked away then, headed to the restaurant, or at least appearing to. Her eyes were focused on the sitting area of the lobby and the vase sitting behind the main couch. She eyed the flowers and approached them from the rear of the couch. They were real, which gave her the excuse to lean for ward and inhale as she slightly tipped the vase and slid one of the keycards under it. She gently placed the vase back in its resting position and stepped away, checking to make sure the card wasn't visible. Only then did she continue on to the restaurant, all the while wondering when the hell she had gotten so good at this.

It was only 8:30 when Sara slid her key card into her door. That should give her time to change and freshen up a bit and do the appropriate amount of pacing before she—

Flowers. There were flowers, roses to be exact, sitting on a tray where a bottle of wine had taken the place of the four bottles of water she had requested to be set out and iced for her. There looked to be a dozen, with eight being red and the remaining four being pink, white, yellow, and orange.

He was early, giving her no mental preparation whatsoever as to what to say, what to do. Technically this was a business meeting, but if he thought she could jump to business without any… preliminaries, then she wasn't quite sure how she would deal with that?

Unable to walk further into the room, Sara stared at the roses and swallowed. Were they from the hotel or from Michael? And if they were from Michael, then why? He knew she had no positive memories when it came to receiving flowers.

She was still staring when Michael stepped into view looking like he had just stepped out of a GQ ad. Sara had never been a vain person, but in that moment she was very aware that she had been traveling most of the day and didn't look half as beautiful as she had planned on.

"Hi," she said weakly, feeling lame the moment the words left her mouth.

He didn't respond, pulling one of the roses from the vase as his eyes held hers. He came to her, stopping so close she could feel his body heat.

"It's always bothered me," he said, touching the rose to the top of her forehead, "to know that you are not a woman who likes flowers." In a caress so gentle the sensation was barely more than a tickle, he dragged the edge of the bloom down her face, over the bridge of her nose, and to her lips. He circled them slowly with the petal's edge.

Breathless from the unexpected gesture, Sara was surprised to hear herself speak. "They don't last."

His mouth curved. "Maybe not, but memories do, and seeing as how I'm a man who likes to give flowers, I thought it was time I try to change your mind on the subject." The velvet edge moved over her chin and to her neck. When it reached the top of her blouse, his other hand reached out and undid the top button. He then moved the rose up to her ear and began tracing her jaw line.

"In the olden days, when lovers weren't allowed to be public, they developed a secret language to communicate. For example, depending on how they felt they would place stamps differently on letters. An upside-down stamp would be like saying 'I love you' and a sideways stamp would be an unspoken request to meet."

After tracing her jaw from ear to ear, he moved the flower down the side of her neck. Sara felt her hand reach out to the wall for stability as she closed her eyes.

"Flowers had meanings as well." The bud pushed her blouse slightly to the side. "The type as well as the color."

"Michael—" she heard herself mutter, although she had no idea what she was planning to say after that. He saved her from thinking of anything by continuing.

"Red," he murmured into her ear, "is for romantic love. It's like an upside-down stamp. It is for passion, it's used to tell someone they're beautiful and that you want them."

Her head as soft as her knees, Sara swallowed and for a moment dared to open her eyes. She had to see the look in Michael's eyes as he said these words. She had to know he meant them. What she saw made her catch her breath, as his steel eyes met hers with an intensity that seemed to make the air thin.

Eyes locked, he traced the rose down her collarbone to the opening of her blouse. His eyes didn't move, nor did he fumble as she felt a second button release before his free arm wrapped around her and picking her up, turned around and placed against the opposing wall. Setting the red flower down, he picked the yellow rose out of the vase.

"Yellow is usually used for friendship," he said, his voice not as steady as it had been in the beginning. This time he pressed the bloom against the cloth of her pants, dragging it along her zipper line until it reached the bottom of her blouse. He gently reached out and untucked it. "But it can also signify new beginnings and say 'I'm sorry.'"

She felt the flower circle her navel and fought the urge to slide down the wall. He picked up a third flower.

"I almost hate to bring up orange, but given our situation it may be relevant in the future." His hand reached under shirt and braced her from behind. He seemed to sense that she was not entirely steady on her feet. "It's meaning has changed over the years, but it was originally used as a color to express feelings of hate." He must have leaned in because she felt his stubbled cheek brush against hers. "If I ever give this flower to you, Sara, it means you are in trouble and to come find me since I will be looking for you."

Sara opened her eyes, ready to beg him to stop and just get on with things, but with him bent over she could see over his shoulder to the bed. It was covered with rose petals, red, white and pink. Red she knew, but he hadn't gotten around to pink and white yet. Legs shaking, she decided to wait him out.

He reached out and picked up the fourth rose.

"Pink is the color you give to your first love, the person you find perfect happiness with." He was shaking slightly as he said this. Or maybe she was. Sara wasn't quite sure which or if it mattered. All she knew was that her blouse was now completely undone and sliding from her shoulders to the floor. She felt his breath release against her neck and the flower trace down her arm. "It's the color you give someone you barely dare touch because of their loveliness."

"Michael, please…" It was like a dream. All of it, and if he didn't prove it was all real by kissing her soon she wasn't quite sure what she would do.

"And then there's white," he said, but she could see her plea had shaken him. Seeing his eyes soften, seeing a need behind those indecipherable eyes, she finally snapped out of her daze and started to participate.

"Yeah?" she breathed. "And what's that one?"

"Pure love," he replied, his voice steady even as she undid his belt.

"Pure?" she teased, pulling the belt from its loops.

"Pure and deep," he said, his voice catching slightly. "You have reasons enough to doubt I mean that, Sara, but it's the truth. The timing and the circumstances suck but it's the truth."

She unhooked his pants. "Michael?"

Heavy eyes gazed back at her. "Yeah?"

"You see that bed over there? How about we use it?"

His hand came to her face as his body pressed into her. "First, tell me you like flowers."

Her hands dipping under the hem of his shirt, she made quick work of removing it. "Love them!"

His hands reached for her thighs and raised her off the ground so they were flush against the wall. "Tell me you want them."

"God, yes!" She wrapped her legs around him. "Every damn day," and then it was she who kissed him.

Sara lay draped across Michael, her breathing even once again even. Michael lay beneath her, his face nestled into the crook of her neck with his arms still around her. Sara reached out for one of the many flower petals that were scattered around her and rubbed the smooth texture between her fingers. She was quite certain she could never throw away a vase of healthy flowers again. At least in this lifetime.

Feeling the slick velvet of the rose, Sara was reminded of her request to the hotel and reached up to pull the comforter down. She felt first and then saw the light blue satin.

"What are you doing?" Michael muttered beneath her.

Sara felt herself blush slightly. "I requested a certain sheets and was just checking to see if they were here."

Michael looked up to the corner of the comforter she had pulled down and smiled. "Guess we didn't get that far."

Sara laughed. "Not even close."

Still straddling him, she sat up and pulled the sheets down. "I thought they might match your eyes," she said, pulling the cloth next to his face. She smiled. "Not bad."

He rubbed against them. "They're soft," he said appreciatively, then his eyes landed coyly onto hers. "Almost as soft as you."

"Almost, huh?" Laughing, she dipped her head down and kissed him, surprised when he sat up and stood, picking both of them off the bed without allowing their lips to unlock. One arm let go of her as he tugged the comforter down, exposing the sheets. When Sara landed in them back first, his face was at her neck again.

His mouth stopped working for a moment as he inhaled deeply. "What perfume do you wear? I need a bottle of it."

It didn't occur to Sara to answer. Between Michael and the sheets she was too busy enjoying a whole new set of sensations.

"I'm buying a set of these," she murmured instead.

He nipped at her ear. "The sheets?"

"Yeah," she breathed. "You should feel them." Giving him no other warning she flipped him over, switching their positions. It was her turn. Pinning his willing arms to the bed with her hands, she started at his mouth and worked down to his tattoo. "This is amazing," she said, bringing a hand over to touch it.

His hand covered hers, his eyes on her lips. "It's functional."

"It's beautiful," she corrected. Sitting up, she surveyed the chest beneath her. "I can't believe you can look at this and see blueprints." Her eyes moved to his arms. "Just look at you. Everything you need to get you through this situation with your brother you have tattooed on your body."

His eyes narrowed into the steely gaze she had come to know so well. "Not everything," he said softly before sitting up and catching her mouth with his again. "Not everything," he repeated.

Sara's breath caught even as her heart gave a heavy thud. A tear appeared in her eye, but she blinked it back. 'Too perfect,' was all she could think. 'All this is too perfect.' But she didn't think that very long. It flew from her mind when Michael took her to the sheets again.

"You go ahead and buy a new set of sheets," he murmured against her breast. "Because I plan on stealing these."

Sara laughed. Not because what he said was funny, but because she knew he was dead serious and couldn't wait to see how he was going to pull it off.

Sara's blouse once again covered her as she sat on the bed and watched Michael read the print out she had given him. The steely gaze she had come to know so well while they were in the prison once again veiled his eyes as they scanned the pages. His silence was unnerving.

"We've got contact names if nothing else," she said helpfully, but his eyes did not look up. She knew instinctively that he was seeing something in the pages she wasn't. She also sensed that he wasn't going to share what that was and felt a twinge of hurt.

How could he go from so expressive and loving one moment to stonewalling her the next?

"Michael, what are you thinking?"

His eyes met hers this time, dark and guarded. "Are you sure they didn't notice the device you added to the computer?"

"Positive." Answering a question with a question. He was distracting her. "What are you really thinking?"

His eyes moved back to the papers in his hand. "The contact names will be good, especially when it comes to these under the table deals." He was silent for a long while. Thinking. His eyes held concern when they looked at her again. "Sara, this is your dad we're talking about. Are you sure you're okay with all of this?"

Sara ran her hand along the satin, unable to make light of the question. "You're asking me that now? It's kind of late for those kinds of questions, don't you think?"

"Never," he said softly, but kept his body language very closed off as he said it.

"Michael, I need to know what you're thinking. I got you the information in your hands, so why can't you tell me what you think about it?"

She could see the debate behind his eyes where that reportedly brilliant mind of his was spinning ideas around.

"Just thinking," he said. "Nothing concrete."

"No," Sara said softly, reaching out to touch his arm. "It's not going to go like this, Michael." She slid her hand down his arm and slipped it into his hand. "We just had a fabulous night, and I'm not going to let you end it like this. I know you're used to going it alone, but you're not alone now. Do you understand that? Not only do you have Lincoln and Veronica, but you've got me now. I want to help you, Michael, but I can't do that if you shut me out."

His eyes were on their entwined hands. Slowly he put the papers and placed his other hand on top of hers, holding them on a warm cocoon.

"I hate what I've done to you," he said softly. "I love being here with you, but I hate why we're here and how we had to pull it off." He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. "I hate that you're in danger and that I'm the sole reason for that, but you know what kills the most?" His eyes found hers, the usual ice in them more watery now. "The fact that if I could take it all back and do everything so we never met, I know I wouldn't change a thing."

Sara smiled. "I don't think I would either."

He gestured to the papers. "Sara, I don't want you to do anything like this again, okay? Setting your father's place up so we can tap into his security system is one thing, but not this."

"Doesn't it help?" she asked, not willing to bend so easily.

"Maybe. We'll see." He stared off into space for a moment, processing something. "You'd better get to sleep so you can be at your best for your interview tomorrow."

"Interview?" she echoed. "The letter was real?"

"Of course," he said with a smile. "It would be too easy for your dad to find out if it was fake."

"I didn't even tell which hospital it was with."

"Yes, but he can find out anything he wants from the driver he hired for you and call the hospital to follow up. I couldn't leave you exposed like that. I may be going to jail at the end of all this, but there's no way I'm letting you."

Sara wasn't quite sure what to say to that, and as she watched Michael's curious eyes regard her, she decided to play his game and say nothing at all on the matter. It felt so wrong.

And when the lights went out and Sara felt spoon in behind her, his arms holding her close, she tried to tell herself that everything was okay. That this was enough. That keeping secrets was okay. But no matter how many ways she tried to convince herself, she couldn't get rid of a hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach that told her that keeping secrets might very well sabotage everything they were working for in more ways than one.

Maybe he thought he was protecting her by not telling her his thoughts, but what he seemed to be forgetting was that she was in as deep as he was at this point, and what she didn't know may very well hurt her.

The interview had been close to laughable. Sara was so severely under qualified for the position that she couldn't imagine how Michael had managed to get her an interview as a candidate. But all that was behind her now as she sat at her desk and fired up her laptop.

Michael had been very clear that he didn't want her bugging any more computers, but she had neglected to tell him that she had bugged the computers again before she left. She had to remove the devices regardless so there was no damage in reviewing what Mark and her father had been up to while she was gone and seeing if she thought it was worth it to keep the surveillance going.

She took the attachment, which was about the size of the top section of her pinky, clicked it into her USB port, and opened her WordPad. Words began spilling onto her screen and after a few seconds she realized that she was looking at Mark's correspondence. Starting from the top, she started to read.

A response to a dinner invitation, commentary on the NRA's bill at the house, discussion regarding President Steadman and a job opening at the capital, a To Do list for his secretary, and then, of all things, a letter to her. Or at least to someone of her name.

Dear Sara,

I don't know what to say to you. What needs to be said? What do you think you know? We haven't spoken since you're return and I think we both know why. And now you've resorted to spying on me—

Sara caught her breath, re-read the sentence, then kept reading.

I guess it's only fair, really. To act indignant would be hypocrisy, but really, how long did you think you would get away with it?

I hope D.C. was worth risking everything for and that those silk sheets gave you happy memories that will keep you warm for quite some time to come because trips like that won't be happening again any time soon.

Your dad knows what you've done, Sara, and so do I. You've given me the excuse I need to do what needs to be done, and this time I don't have to go through your dad to get it. Rather I have his permission.

In short, Sara, you're fucked.

Look out your window and you'll see your ride.

No one's going to miss you and no one's going to come looking for you. You have your father to thank for that.

See you soon,

Mark

Sara didn't feel well. She stared at the screen, re-reading the last lines and willing them to say anything else. After her fourth time reading them, she stood and moved to her window, following the instructions in Mark's letter, and wishing she hadn't.

Parked on her front curb was an ambulance.

Sara froze, looking for another car… any car when the door to her bedroom opened behind her. She spun to face it, expecting to see Mark, but seeing Jerald, her father's bodyguard instead. In his hands was a vase of orange roses.

"Jerald!" she breathed, her eyes locked on the flowers and feeling the first surge of hope.

"You had a delivery, Ms. Tancredi." He set the flowers on her dresser.

"When did they come?" she asked, eyeing the ambulance, but when Jerald didn't answer right away she looked over at him. Just in time to watch him shoot her.

When Sara awoke she was seeing in triplicates, her consciousness only half-way in her body while the rest of it seemed to be floating a few inches above her.

She knew this feeling—had once yearned for it, but now it gripped her with fear. She was sitting, she realized, but when she mustered up the motor skills to stand, she found she couldn't. Her hands were stuck. So were her feet.

She dropped her gaze and saw straps binding all three of her right arms. She blinked, trying to make the three become one as a door opened to her left. She heard the noise in echoes. The world seemed to spin as she turned her head to see who was joining her and her eyes rested on Mark.

He dragged a chair across the floor and positioned it so he could sit knee to knee with her. "Well, hello there, Sara."

Angered burned in her, but all that came out was an impotent groan.

"Don't worry. We turned off your morphine drip. Just a few more minutes and you'll be as aware as I need you to be."

Sara felt tears sting her eyes and tugged against her restraints. It was no use. Her eyes were focused enough now to see the IV feeding into her left arm.

"How long have you been clean now, Sara?" Mark asked casually. "Almost two years? That's quite an accomplishment. Morphine can be quite addictive and harder than cigarettes to overcome, which is dangerous because the body needs more and more morphine to achieve the same effects as lower doses used to accomplish, which makes overdosing a distinct possibility."

Trying to ignore his words, Sara recalled as much as she knew as to how she had gotten here. She had been shot… in the shoulder… by Jerald. She remembered that much. But if that was the case, how come she didn't feel like she had been shot? Was the morphine covering up the pain?

She looked down at her shoulder to look for bandages and saw none.

"It was a tranquilizer gun," Mark filled in for her. "We didn't need any complications or trips to the hospital. As far as everyone knows you relapsed on your addiction and are now at a facility receiving the help you need."

It was tempting to yell at Mark, to call him a name, to curse him. But if there was one thing Sara had learned from Michael it was that silence could be much more powerful than words, so she merely narrowed her eyes and watched him instead.

He stood. "You may be wondering what I'm doing here," he said, moving to the far wall, which Sara now realized was covered with TV monitors. "I am such a busy man after all, so for me to break away and take this much time for something, it must be special, indeed." He hit a power button and three of the TVs turned on, but remained black. "And let me assure you, this is very special."

Sara's eyes were focused enough that she see the monitors with ease, and enough of the morphine had worn off to make her aware of the worried feeling in the pit of her stomach.

"I'm actually kind of proud of this, really," Mark continued. "You see, we are always trying to improve our interrogation tactics, so when we have a chance to test something new, I can't help but hope I'm part of the process." He put his hands in his pockets and stepped towards her. "You should know, Sara, that I made this one up just for you, and it starts with me asking you a question."

Sara watched him move closer then lean over her until they were nose to nose. When he spoke, his breath was hot on her face. "You're boyfriend has five-million dollars stashed away somewhere. Where is it?"

Sara didn't even blink. "I have no idea."

Mark smiled. "Don't you now?" He straightened abruptly, looking happy at her answer and returned to the monitors and pressed a button. A picture materialized on the top screen. It was an aerial shot of Michael chained to a wall. Before Sara could register what exactly that meant, Mark turned on the second screen which showed Lincoln in a maze. The third screen displayed a bloody and beaten Veronica. Or at least she assumed it was Veronica.

"Genius, don't you think? I mean, if I put Michael in Lincoln's labyrinth, he would figure it out within hours, just like Lincoln is strong enough to break out of the chains his brother is in." He smiled smugly. "Too bad that boyfriend of yours didn't hit the weights more when he was in the slammer. His loss."

"Look, Mark, I really don't know—"

"And then there's you," he interrupted. "You've got one more opportunity to answer before we move to phase two." He came nose to nose to her again, his hand gently pushing her hair back. "Where's the money?"

She ignored his touch and stared him in the eye. "I don't know."

He smiled and straightened. "You hear that, boys? Shoot him."

A gunshot sounded from one of the monitors and Sara watched Lincoln fall, clutching his leg as he did so. Her body instinctually jerked to rush to the monitor, but she was held down by the restraints.

"Uh-oh," Mark said comically. "Looks like someone needs help." He moved his chair so they could sit shoulder to shoulder watching the screens. "In your professional opinion did the sniper hit the femoral artery? Is he going to bleed out or is he safe?"

No, the femoral artery hadn't been hit, but Sara didn't say so. Artery or not, Lincoln had been shot and needed help.

"What to do?" Mark taunted. "You're boyfriend threw away his life to save this guy and now it looks like he's just going to bleed out on the ground unless you tell me where your boyfriend's money is."

Sara couldn't help the tears that came to her eyes. It was all too clear to her that Mark was going to kill Lincoln no matter what she said or did. Same with Veronica. He was also going to turn her back into a druggie, hitting her with morphine until the day she accidentally o.d.-ed, and then do who-knew-what to Michael.

God he was twisted, and there was nothing at all she could do about it.

"Sara," Mark said, not taking his eyes off of Lincoln's monitor. "This is your last chance before we move to phase three."

Sara thought of Michael and the account number tattooed onto his arm. She was unable to stop the tear that slipped from her eye as she watched Lincoln try to apply pressure to his own wound.

She took a deep breath. "If you want answers from me, Mark, you should ask me questions I know the answer to."

Mark's gaze focused on her, all humor gone. "Very well, then. Phase three it is," he said as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a syringe.


	2. Chapter 2

Sara heard things in echoes. A door opened and shut. She heard the door knob turn and click when it ended its rotation—all the sounds overlapping each other.

She heard voices, hushed tones that spoke nonsense. Sometimes the voices were merely muted, other times they carried hints of annoyance. Sara opened her eyes to see who was speaking and found herself alone in the darkened interrogation room, even the monitors turned off.

There was no disorientation when Sara opened her eyes and found herself in the sterile concrete room. Every coherent thought she had was centered on escaping it and most of her high moments were spent wondering why she just couldn't float away to safety. Float away to Michael. To Lincoln. To Veronica to see if she really was dead now.

Heaven knew that was the impression Mark had last left her with.

Eyes open and eager to hold on to the small level of clarity she had, Sara eyed her bindings. Excruciatingly simple, yet so effective. Just simple leather bands across her wrist and belted to the side of the chair.

Her neck ached from sleeping upright without support and her throat was long past dry. Each breath was painful and accompanied by a slight wheeze. If they kept this up any longer, they would have to intubate her. In her half-high state, the thought of a feeding to go along with her catheter seemed humorous. Ridiculous. Made her seem so inhuman—more like a vessel.

Maybe she was. Maybe that was all she was and for some unknown reason that thought made her laugh, tears appearing in her eyes and trickling down her face as her body shook progressively harder at the thought of her body being wired to live like something out of a sci-fi movie.

And for what? Why were they doing this? It was ridiculous.

Suddenly, Sara heard singing and stopped laughing to listen more closely. Then she realized she was the one who was singing:

"The tubes go in

The tubes go out

The tubes play pinochle in you snout."

She started laughing again. Tears streaming now. To her left she heard the echoes of voices and knew they were talking about her. They were probably looking through that little window on the door and monitoring her. Gauging her. Trying to decide if she had gone loony on them.

Loony? She'd give them loony! If she was lucky they would decide the morphine regimen they were giving her was a bit higher than necessary and cut her back. That would give her a few more lucid moments, although Sara wasn't quite sure what she'd do with those once she had them.

Still, it would be a change and Sara was up for that. Time had long since become immeasurable, but if the aches in her back and butt counted for anything, she had been there a long time. Pretty soon she would get sores if they didn't allow her to change positions, and for some reason that made her laugh. And sing.

She must still have been high, because Sara hadn't even opened her mouth to sing with the congregation in church when she was a kid. Some people had the gift of song, and Sara wasn't one of them.

Which made it all the more hysterical that she was singing one of her favorite childhood songs—the song she had always been too shy to sing except when she was by herself— at the top of her lungs:

"Did you ever think, as a hearse goes by,

That you might be the next to die?

They wrap you up in a big, white sheet,

And bury you down about six feet deep."

She heard a key push into the lock.

"They put you in a big, black box,

And cover you up with dirt and rocks,

And all goes well for about a week,

And then the coffin begins to leak!"

The door clicked open, but Sara pretended not to notice and continued to sing like a drunkard.

"The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out,

The worms play pinochle on your snout!

They eat your eyes, they eat your nose!

They eat that jelly between your toes!"

A man in a white coat stood at her side, injecting something into her IV. Within seconds Sara's tongue was too lazy to articulate much of anything, not to mention finish her song, which was just as well since her vocal chords no longer seemed to want to vibrate.

God, she felt glorious. Like heaven above was opening its gates and letting her in free of charge.

'This is a nightmare, not heaven,' Sara reminded herself and then went under.


	3. Chapter 3

She wasn't supposed to be conscious. Sara wasn't quite sure how she knew that, but an inner voice urged her to hold very still despite the workings of her thrashing stomach. It felt like someone was wringing it like an over-saturated wash cloth.

"She should be coming to soon," a voice said from a distance. Or maybe it came from right next to her. It was hard to tell.

A pair of footsteps walked over to the wall, turning on the monitors one by one. "Everyone's in place."

Without another word, two sets of footprints echoed around her and then disappeared behind a steel door, which shut behind them with a hushed click.

Sara was alone.

She took her time opening her eyes. Her bound hands longed to reach for her stomach and hold it as it fought itself within her. Another shot and she wouldn't feel that anymore. Another shot and all this would disappear.

Sara opened her eyes, the dim light blinding her, and found her surroundings much as they had been every other time she had opened her eyes in recent memory. Only this time the monitors were on and she could see Michael chained to a wall and Lincoln resting his leg in his strange maze of a holding cell.

What a pathetic trio they were, Sara thought on an inner laugh.

A moment later Sara realized that Michael had lost his shirt sometime between the last time she saw him and the present. No doubt Mark and company had been looking at his tattoos, trying to figure out their hidden messages.

Looking at Michael, bound and shirtless, Sara had an odd feeling come over her, but was unable to place it. But since the morphine was wearing off and she had nothing better to do, she watched him. He kept his head down so she couldn't see his face or eyes all that well, which meant she started watching his body, looking for signs of malnourishment and dehydration.

He had lost a little weight, but overall still looked strong. His chains gave him enough slack to switch positions and even pace a little bit, which was what he was doing right now.

Sara found herself watching how his arms hung limply at his sides, his hands no more than dead weight that swung he walked. She'd never seen him move like that. Michael was always cautious with his delicate hands, hiding them whenever possible—tucking them away as he walked. The chains must have kept him from doing that.

But still she watched. The focused Michael she knew seemed impatient and angry as he paced with his head down and eyes averted… arms swinging. She had seen him in countless stressful situations before and he had never acted like this. He was a thinker, a man who pulled inward and contained his energy, not a man who paced it off gracelessly.

Bells started going off in Sara's mind, confusing her as she peered closer. She wasn't sure what she was looking for and once she saw it it took a moment to process.

She had seen it a dozen times since she had started watching him, and only now did her conscious mind catch on.

There was no scar on his shoulder. The man who was pacing back and forth in that cell had never had the skin on his shoulder blade burned off, and a seamless tattoo stretched over the spot that had caused her so much grief just a short time ago. Which meant the man in that cell could not be Michael.

Sara looked over to "Lincoln," eyes narrowed, searching for a clue, but she didn't know that brother as well. Yet reason told her if they had created a stand in for one brother, then they had likely done the same for the other. And Vernoica? She had been "beaten" unrecognizably from the beginning.

Her mind clearing by the moment, her stomach pain relenting from the flood of adrenaline that filled her system as realization dawned, Sara watched the screens and started reassessing her situation.


End file.
